


The Composition of Makeup

by InkedViolin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Dead Mary, Gay Sherlock, Gen, Gender Issues, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Genderfluid Sherlock, Genderqueer Sherlock, Greg Lestrade is a Good Friend, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Makeup, Mental Health Issues, Nonbinary Sherlock, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PTSD Sherlock, Recreational Drug Use, Self Confidence Issues, Trans Sherlock, Transphobia, Virgin Sherlock, background lestrade/mycroft, season four happened in Sherlock's head
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-03-25 00:52:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 46,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13823019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkedViolin/pseuds/InkedViolin
Summary: What makes a man a man? A woman a woman?What do you do when you suddenly don't know yourself?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is not intended to be a catch-all end-all non-binary experience. Just think of it as one story of many.  
> Inspired by the [Sherlock Challenge](https://sherlockchallenge.tumblr.com/) January prompt: Change  
> No beta, if you're interested comment.

John was gone. He wasn’t coming back. No matter how many times Sherlock texted, stopped by, even _called_ , John wouldn’t be moved. He wouldn’t even come out on cases. He was holed up in that wretched flat he’d shared with Mary, mourning her loss and the loss of his child.

He blamed Sherlock, _“You promised to protect them. You promised! What use are you?!”_

Sherlock also promised to always be there. So, he was careful with the drugs, taking extra care not to overdose like that time on the plane. Sherlock was bound by the promise then but he’d thought he wasn’t coming back anyway so it didn’t matter. He had no idea that Mycroft had arranged for him to be saved, brought back to London. He probably should have deduced it but he was already high. Either way, it didn’t matter, while he was busy dying in the hospital Mary was kidnapped. He came around just in time to start looking but it was too late. By the time he’d directed Lestrade to her location she was already dead. He’d been so close to saving her. Twelve hours, the forensics team estimated. He was too late by half a day. Too late for Mary. Much too late for the baby.

His supply was running low. He tucked the little bag back into its hiding place. Time to go clubbing.

Sherlock poured himself into black leather trousers. He left an extra button undone on his black shirt and mussed his hair in the mirror. There, perfect.

That’s when his eyes landed on the eyeliner. His hand hovered over it.

He’d bought it for a case. He’d needed it to test an alibi, it didn’t flake but the pencil at the man’s house did. It’d been left there like he said, rolled under the claw foot tub and the suspect’s lackadaisical cleaning habits made sure it wasn’t found until his home was searched.

Sherlock had been embarrassed (of all things!) bringing it to the girl running the register but he shouldn’t have worried, he doubted she would have cared if he bought the whole store.

There was another man there, checking out the lipstick and glancing furtively at Sherlock. Maybe it was him that had made Sherlock uncomfortable. The man was short, blond, and his whole face was made up, even to the point of wearing false eyelashes.

Yes, Sherlock decided, it had been the man. He reminded Sherlock of John and John in makeup would be very strange.

Would he look strange with eye makeup? It wouldn’t be too much for the club. Just a little couldn’t hurt. Sherlock decided it’d be fine to test it. He could always wash it off if it was horrible.

Sherlock was careful. It was too much to do his whole eye. Sherlock experimented and found that he only needed to do the outside half of his eye on top near the lashes and about a fourth of the lid on the bottom. It made his eye water a bit and the liner ran. He wiped that bit off and stared at himself.

It was nice. Better than nice. It looked good.

He wondered what would happen if he used some eyeshadow, mascara and blush. Just a touch, keep it looking natural.

No, what was he thinking? Imagine if John saw him like that!

 _What would it matter?_ A nasty little voice in his head said. _John’s never going to see you again_. But what if he ran into Lestrade, or god forbid, Donovan?

“Stop it,” he told himself. He was being ridiculous. He was going out clubbing and he was wearing a bit of eyeliner. There was nothing strange about that.

***

Sherlock came home with a pocket full of heroin. He’d also accumulated three men’s phone numbers. One of them even told Sherlock his eyes were sexy. He was feeling rather good about the whole thing. Normally he didn’t come home with any numbers at all. And no one had called any physical part of him sexy. He didn’t even act any differently or hang about longer. He’d still told everyone who came near him that he wasn’t interested and this time some of them lingered.

He hadn’t dressed differently either. Nothing was changed except the eyeliner.

Leaning back in his chair Sherlock ignored the heroin. Maybe this could be his experiment. He could go to the club in different makeup and see what got him the most numbers. It’d be interesting, maybe even useful. Yes, he might need to chat up a suspect in a club. It would be good to be at his best in that case. He’d had to chase down people in clubs before. It would happen again.

In the morning he’d go pick up some more makeup.

Sherlock couldn’t sleep. He was keyed up and kept thinking of all the things he wanted for his experiment. When light came in the window Sherlock got up. He looked in the mirror and saw how his eyeliner was smudged. He wiped off the worst of it but left the rest on. It was barely noticeable. He showered, taking care not to wash his face, shaved and finished all his morning ablutions.

Feeling like a reasonable human being for the first time in months Sherlock was awake to greet Mrs Hudson when she brought up tea. She’d been slightly annoyed that he hadn’t noticed where it came from before and he tried to make a note to thank her whenever he noticed she did something. Which wasn’t often, but all the same she appreciated his effort. 

“Glad to see you’re finally feeling better, dear,” she said.

Sherlock hummed. He had been rather depressed ever since he realized John wasn’t coming back. He had something to stimulate his mind now, something that had nothing to do with John. Since John didn’t go clubbing and wouldn’t be caught dead at a makeup shop there was no cloying bittersweet sentiment surrounding the things he was going to be doing for the foreseeable future.

“I’m planning a new experiment,” Sherlock said to derail Mrs Hudson’s train of thought. He really didn’t want to hear that John would return, that he John just needed some time to mourn, again.

“That’s nice. Just remember that thumbs go in the crisper.”

Mrs Hudson was a remarkable person.

Sherlock set off shortly after he finished his tea. Mrs Hudson hung around to do whatever it was that Mrs Hudson did when he was out.

Even though it was a different shift the same girl was working the register. Sherlock glanced around, it was early enough that there weren’t many shoppers yet. The makeup John man wasn’t there.

He had wanted to take his time, browse everything, examine every item. He’d even set out a plan on how to do so efficiently in his head during the night. Now that he was actually here he felt exposed. Even though it was plain no one was paying attention to him he felt like he was being watched.

What had he wanted?

Lipstick, a shade darker than his normal colour. But what type? Lip gloss, classic lipstick, matte, metallic, long lasting, smudge proof... why was this so complicated? Eyeshadow in a colour that would bring out his eyes but still looked natural. Brown, purple and peach. Which were, apparently, impossible to find in a group together. Blush. That one was easier than the others but finding a shade that wasn’t garish was tricky. He was so pale it couldn’t be as dark as the manufactures preferred to make it. Mascara, he definitely wanted waterproof and black. Why were there multiple shades of black? Why would the brush shape matter? Lengthening, volume maximizing… He just wanted something black that wouldn’t make his eyelashes look like they were covered in spider webs and wouldn’t run in the rain! Was that so difficult?

He liked his eyeliner but it ran a bit too much. He thought he should try a different type. But which one? None of the pencils said they were waterproof and he had enough trouble with them that he didn’t want to try liquid until he was a bit more accomplished. He noticed some thin plastic eyeliners that didn’t have the wood around them. The eyeliner bit was thinner. He grabbed one of those then he noticed they had different colours. Excited, he took a purple and a bright teal one.

Maybe he should try some of the different types of lipstick, to get a good idea of what he liked best. A variety of colours too.

Since his hands were full Sherlock took a little basket out and started piling things in.

***

The sun peeked out from behind the clouds. Sherlock soaked it in as he walked back to the flat. The bag in his hand was quite small for how much it had all cost. That’s what he got for not getting his make up at Tesco. But that was ok, he’d found that quality mattered. He’d paid in cash so Mycroft wouldn’t see the receipt and now couldn’t afford the cab ride home. But it was such a nice day he didn’t mind.

Back at Baker Street Sherlock bounded up the stairs and shut himself in the bathroom. He tried the thin black eyeliner first. It was much easier to put on. He found he could get three-quarters of his top lid rimmed in black with it. He was about to do his lower lid when he caught the purple liner in the corner of his eye. And that was a thought, wasn’t it? He got half his lower lid rimmed in a deep plum. He leaned back and looked at himself.

It was stunning. He took out the eyeshadow. The palettes had instructions on the back. He applied the purple as instructed. That was a bit much. He took a swab and wiped away the eyeshadow. He didn’t like it as much as the liners, anyway. Sherlock decided to try the peach with brown. He leaned back after he was finished. That was much better.

Next was mascara. He was surprised at just how long his lashes actually were. He hadn’t known that the tips of them weren’t as black as the rest of them. Well, he’d known, but it was different seeing it. As expected, the quality mascara didn’t clump up. His lower lashes still looked a bit strange though. He decided next time he put on makeup he’d only do the upper set.

Now he wanted to try the lipstick. He stayed away from the dark purple ones figuring they’d be too heavy just like the purple eyeshadow had been. He could match the peach though. He tried an orangish tube that had gold metallic in it. It washed out his lips a bit. He pouted. Then he remembered the coloured gloss.

Oh, this was exciting. Sherlock liked how the two products mixed. He’d have to try mixing the tubes of lipstick. Feeling confident Sherlock took out the blush.

He stomped out of the bathroom an hour later. He couldn’t get the blush to look right and in his irritation, he’d rubbed his eyes and smeared all his hard work. It still looked fine, just not as good as it had before. Sherlock threw himself onto the couch in a strop.

There was a loud shriek from downstairs.

He froze. Was Mrs Hudson ok? He didn’t want anyone to see him in his makeup, but what if she’d fallen?

“Sherlock, help!”

Flying off the couch and down the stairs, Sherlock threw open the door to flat a. “Mrs Hudson?”

There was water flooding the flat, it was everywhere. A pipe had obviously burst.

“Turn it off!”

Sherlock ran for the shut-off and turned the lever. Then he ran back to Mrs Hudson and found her on the ground.

“Are you alright?” Had she slipped?

“I’m fine, dear, I’m fine. Just soaked is all. Can you help me clean this up?” She looked up at him pleadingly.

“Of course,” Sherlock was relieved that Mrs Hudson was ok. He helped her to her feet. “I’ll get the mop,” he said once he’d ensured she could stand safely.

“Oh, Sherlock.” Mrs Hudson gasped. “You look lovely.”

She’d clearly noticed the makeup. He felt his face get hot. “It’s for an experiment,” he said quickly.

“Well, I think you look beautiful. Nice and natural, with just a pop of colour. You should wear your purple shirt with that when you go out tonight.”

Obviously, she’d seen him leave yesterday.

“I don’t think I’m going today, we don’t have water to wash it all off.”

“Hush, go out and have some fun. You’re young and it’s more acceptable nowadays, men wearing makeup. When I was younger—”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock interrupted her. “I’m going to get that mop now.” And he wasn’t that young. Maybe it’d be ok if he were in his twenties. People his age just didn’t do that.

Did they?

The John man was about his age. And he was out during the day, doing shopping, not going to a nightclub.

He’d wanted to start small, he’d already done eyeliner. He wanted to do mascara next. Then blush then lipstick then mascara and eyeliner then eyeshadow and lipstick and so on working his way up to doing his whole face. And, of course, he’d have to do each at different clubs on different days. He figured he could skip some steps, the order shouldn’t matter for the data.

Taking the mop out of the closet he set to work while Mrs Hudson changed.

***

Sherlock did wear the purple shirt. His black one was dirty. He stood in front of the mirror and artfully mussed his hair. He reapplied his lipstick, mixing a darker pink shade with the orange one. He applied clear gloss over the top. He looked at himself critically. He’d like to redo his eyeshadow but without water, he didn’t want to risk it. Figuring he could use saliva if he had to he reapplied the purple eyeliner on the bottom. Thankfully it wasn’t necessary to wipe any off.

He was feeling pretty good about the whole thing. “ _Lovely,”_ Mrs Hudson had said. He thought he looked more than that. Sexy even.

The cabbie didn’t bat an eye when Sherlock gave destination. As the cab wound through London’s streets Sherlock’s anxiety rose. He’d selected a poorly lit club but realized that he’d forgotten about the doorman. What if he couldn’t get in? What if they called him a freak and laughed at him?

Sherlock shook his head and dismissed the thoughts. He would be able to deduce if the bouncer would let him in before he even walked up to the door.

The taxi came to a stop outside the club. None of the men in the line were wearing any makeup and they weren’t too much younger than he was. A couple of men walked up to the door and the bouncer let them in. One of the men had his hand on his partner's leather-clad arse.

Yes, he decided, he would be fine. He paid the cabbie and walked up to the door. He acted aloof. With hooded eyes, he pouted at the bouncer. The man smiled a bit and let Sherlock in.

Sherlock sat at the bar and nursed a fruity drink that came with a straw (so he wouldn’t muss his lipstick too much).

“You waiting for someone, beautiful?” A man asked.

Sherlock had a type: muscular military men. And the man in front of him was plenty fit, he had short cropped black hair but had nothing to do with the military. In fact, he looked like he was just out of uni.

It was rather flattering that out of a room full of people closer to his age he’d chosen Sherlock.

“Nope,” Sherlock said popping the p. “But I’m not looking to go home with someone tonight.” Best to make that clear up front.

“Just out to have a bit of fun, huh? Well, come dance with me.”

Sherlock considered it. He would have to leave his drink, but he didn’t like it much anyway. He set it on the bar and let the man lead him to the dancefloor.

Somehow over the course of the night, Sherlock had ended up adopted by a close-knit group of friends all out to listen to this DJ and dance. When he went to get a water one of the girls followed. “Your makeup is running,” she said into his ear.

“Oh,” Sherlock wasn’t sure what to do. He figured he’d have to go the loo and fix it.

“Just go like this,” the woman said. She looked up and dragged her forefingers under her eyes.

Sherlock mimicked her.

With her thumb, she wiped away a smudge on his cheek.

“Better,” she declared.

“Thanks,” he said.

As they waited for their waters she asked, “So, you gay?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her.

“I’m just asking because Kevin’s interested. Nothing serious, he just got out of a bad relationship.”

“I’m not looking for a hook-up,” he said. He wasn’t looking for a relationship either. He was having fun dancing. So far three women and seven men had pulled him aside to proposition him and two more had tried to cop a feel by attempting to slide their phone numbers into his pockets.

Most of them weren’t even drunk. This was the most fun he’d had in quite some time.

“Too bad,” she said.

The song changed and she cheered. She grabbed his arm and dragged him back to the group.

Sherlock came home exhausted but with a smile on his face.

When he woke up the water was back on. Which was good because his makeup was smeared everywhere and he desperately needed a shower.

It was Sunday so some of the clubs would be closed, the others would be more subdued. Sherlock washed his face and looked down at his makeup. He didn’t have to leave the flat today. He decided to research how to properly put on blush.

Makeup tutorials were overwhelming. He’d spent the entire day watching them. Most of them were made by women but some were by men. One of his favourites had a wall of shoes in the background of every video. Sherlock thought most of the shoes were garish but there was one pair that he fell in love with. He wished he could go out and get them but his feet were huge. He knew there were stores that specialized in heels for men they mostly catered to crossdressers, like his uncle.

He’d always thought his uncle had the prettiest dresses and when they were children Mycroft had teased him endlessly when he said he wanted to wear dresses too. In fact, Mycroft still brought it up. Sherlock hated it.

The woman on the screen brought out some iridescent gold eyeliner and Sherlock watched her apply it. When she was finished Sherlock added the product to his list.

He wasn’t a crossdresser, he just thought the clothes looked nice was all. And he was irritated that just because he was born a man he couldn’t do certain things. Then again, men weren’t supposed to wear makeup either. Not outside some concealer anyway. Unless the man was an actor.

Apparently, that was changing.

Sherlock closed his laptop and went to go try out some of the tricks he’d learned.

Black eyeliner on the outside half of the top lid and the bottom fourth of the bottom. Teal eyeliner across the rest of the top and across part of the bottom. Sherlock took the eyeshadow palette that had white in it and applied it to the inside corner of his eye. Then peach across the centre of the lid, dark purple across the outside corner, dragging a little along the crease of his eye.

Dark pink lipstick, light pink over it in the middle of his bottom lip and marron at the corners. He needed lip liner. It was on the list. He ran a sheer red lip gloss over the whole thing.

Sherlock sucked in his cheeks (not that he really needed to) and brushed on the blush.

He undid a button on his black shirt and mussed his hair. He smiled at his reflection, he looked _good_.

There was a popular DJ at one of the clubs tonight, there should be plenty of people there and dancing.

Mrs Hudson was in his living room.

“Heading out again?”

He hummed as he manoeuvred around her.

“Don’t forget your lipstick.”

“Oh, yes.” Sherlock went back to the bathroom. Since his makeup was darker it would be more noticeable when it rubbed off on his drinks. How had Mrs Hudson known?

 “Have fun, dear. You look very nice,” she said when he came back.

There was a skip in Sherlock’s step as he headed down to his taxi.

This cabbie gave Sherlock an odd look but didn’t comment. Sherlock ignored him. He’d done his research, he should fit right in with this crowd. When the cab passed the line to get in Sherlock saw several men wearing makeup.

Strolling through the door Sherlock made his way to get a drink. The bartender waited on him immediately. It was lighter in here than the last club but that was ok. Sherlock could already tell from the lingering looks he was getting that he was right, he looked good.

“You’re gorgeous,” a man said.

It was loud enough Sherlock could get away with not responding verbally. He smiled at the man.

“Bet those pretty little lips would look really good on my cock,” the man reached out to touch Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock swatted his hand away. “Not interested.” That was the vilest proposition he’d heard yet.

“Don’t want to ruin your makeup, huh? That’s ok. I’ll let you ride me.”

“I said I’m not interested. I came here to listen to the music, not to take someone home. Go away.” Sherlock resisted the urge to deduce the man to shreds. This man would swing on him and he didn’t want to get thrown out.

“Come on, let me show you feel good.”

“Hey, love. Sorry, there was a line at the loo.” A different man came up and wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. “Get lost,” the new man said and, thankfully, the other man did.

“Sorry,” the new man said as took his arm off Sherlock. “I was reading your lips. I hate it when someone can’t take a hint.”

“I wasn’t lying, I’m not interested.” And he didn’t need saving. He wasn’t a damsel in distress.

“I’m not looking. You came here alone, right? Come dance with me and my friends. It’ll keep the creeps away.”

The man was obviously looking but Sherlock could tell he wasn’t going to push it. He had fun with the last group he was a part of and it would be nice not to dance alone.

Sherlock set his drink on the bar and let the other man lead the way. Sherlock could feel the bass in his chest as they wove their way past the speakers.

“Hey guys, this is… sorry, I didn’t get your name,” the man said.

Sherlock hesitated. He considered the ramifications and said, “William.”

“Patrick,” the man introduced himself. “That’s Sherri, Maya, Brent, and the one that’s not paying any attention is Nathan.”

Sherlock nodded at them.

“Dance with me, William,” Maya said and started undulating.

Sherlock did. He was beginning to really like the music they played in clubs. He agreed with the people online that this DJ was talented. Soon he was laughing at Sherri’s antics. Nathan tried to grind up against him and he made it clear that he liked what personal space he could get on the crowded dance floor. Nathan shrugged and started grinding against Maya.

It was starting to get warm and soon Sherlock was sweating. A few songs later and he was weaving through people to get some water. Sherri tagged along.

Sherri appreciated Sherlock’s talent at getting the bartender’s attention. While they were sipping their water she said, “I never do this, but I can’t help it. Come home with me.”

Sherlock shook his head.

She accepted this. “That’s too bad, I’ve never been with a trans person.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. He was sure she hadn’t said tranny but he didn’t understand the word she’d used.

“Oh, my god. Are you not? I’m sorry! Me and my big mouth.” She babbled afterwards uncomfortably.

He took out his phone. Lestrade had texted. The case looked interesting but he was busy. Despite Sherri’s possible faux pas, he was having fun.

**From: Sherlock**

**Boring. -SH**

Sherri talked herself out and was sulking.

“Sorry,” Sherlock said. “Work. They wanted me to come in. I told them I’m busy.”

This perked her up. When they finished their waters Sherlock used the loo, wiped under his eyes and touched up his lipstick. He was propositioned again but this man knew how to take no for an answer. 

Sherlock danced a bit more before the group decided to go home for the night. He figured he should do the same. When he exited the club there was a black car along the curb. He ignored it and started walking. The car followed. Sherlock ducked into a tube station.

When he got home Mycroft was waiting.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I am blown away by the response to this story. Thank you to everyone who commented, kudoed, bookmarked and subscribed. I love you all and I'll do my best not to muck up the story.

“Where is it?” Mycroft demanded. “I’ve already found your stash here. I don’t know how you knew I was searching the flat today but it doesn’t matter.” He held out his hand. “The drugs, Sherlock.”

“I’m clean,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft gave him a flat look. “So you were just out clubbing in that ridiculous disguise for fun, were you?”

Actually, he was. And it wasn’t a disguise. But he knew from the look on Mycroft’s face that his brother wouldn’t believe him. Even if Mycroft did it’d result in merciless teasing. He’d never hear the end of it.

“My supplier didn’t show,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft stared at him before nodding. “Go wash all that off your face so I can look at you while we talk.”

“We have nothing to talk about, Mycroft.”

“Then why did my people find heroin and cocaine in your flat?” Mycroft countered. “And you refused an interesting case today. Need I remind you what happened last time? It won’t be just John missing, Lestrade won’t give you any more cases.”

“I. Am. Clean!”

Mycroft gave a very put-upon sigh. “Yes, well, make sure it stays that way.”

Before going to bed Sherlock scrubbed his face so hard that it was pink and smarting.

He woke up in a dour mood. How was he supposed to go clubbing now? Mycroft would be watching him like a hawk. Sherlock couldn’t even do his makeup since his brother might decide to stop by at any moment. He rolled over and went back to sleep.

A text alert woke Sherlock up.

**From: Lestrade**

**Another body.**

Sherlock really didn’t care but he dragged himself out of bed anyway.

***

Three days later the case was solved. The next morning Sherlock browsed the club from Sunday night’s calendar. That same DJ was scheduled. He wondered if Sherri and Nathan and the others would be there. He clicked the browser closed. He couldn’t go, not with Mycroft watching his every move.

That’s when he remembered Sherri’s comment about being trans. He opened the browser back up and searched.

There was a plethora of information. A considerable amount was positive but there were a lot of negative comments too. He sat back with his hands steepled under his chin. He wondered, would he count as transgender? He did like feminine things--had from a young age. And, honestly he loved wearing makeup. When he did he didn’t feel like a man wearing makeup, he felt different. Did he feel like a woman? He didn’t know. He just thought it was… pretty. He wanted to keep wearing makeup. He felt like himself when he did. And he wanted to wear feminine shoes and a dress. But he wasn’t a cross dresser, he knew that. It was something different. Was it because he was actually a woman? He’d chosen the Belstaff because it had nice lines and moved when he walked. He wondered if he selected it because it reminded him of the dresses he’d always wanted.

Was Uncle Rudy transgender? He could ask, if he had to explain what he was going through then so be it. He knew his uncle would keep his secret; he probably knew all about transgender people too. Apparently, Sherlock had been living under a rock, since he’d never heard the term before. Or maybe he had and he’d deleted it.

But if he called his uncle Mycroft would know; Mycroft was surely monitoring his mobile. Mycroft would put it together instantly. (If he hadn’t already from the things Sherlock had been searching.)

“Stupid, stupid!” Sherlock cursed himself. But how would he have known the outcome of his searches? At least if Mycroft asked he could explain that he was doing research after a comment someone made to him at the club. It wasn’t a lie.

“Oh!” Sherlock remembered he had told Lestrade he’d come in to give his statement today. That was good, he could phone his uncle from NSY. He knew of a place he could have privacy.

The weather was getting warm but Sherlock still wrapped his scarf around his neck and put on his coat before leaving. He felt exposed.

After giving his statement Sherlock opened the office of a DI that was on vacation. He locked the door after himself and rang his uncle. Just in case Sherlock had been followed he told his uncle his problem without preamble.

“Only you can know if you’re trans, Sherlock. I always knew I was a woman but sometimes you don’t know until you’re older. It wasn’t until secondary that you figured out you were gay. And that was because you’d come to really understand the term. It might be the same with this, it might not be. Whatever you discover about yourself remember you don’t have to be ashamed. I know I told you this about being gay and you didn’t listen but maybe this’ll change your mind and you can finally come out of the closet,” Uncle Rudy said.

Sherlock rang off after that. He was irritated. So what if he didn’t want to come out? So what if he repressed his urges and didn’t have sex because he didn’t want anyone to know he was gay? It was his own business. He huffed. Maybe he didn’t want to know if he was transgender. If it turned out he was it’d just be another thing he had to conceal.

He couldn’t just not know though. He was curious and he didn’t like introspection but it was necessary. Especially with this. He couldn’t have anyone finding out before he did. Like with John, everyone had known Sherlock was in love with him before Sherlock did. It was humiliating. Luckily all those idiots thought he was asexual. If he was transgender he’d figure out how to hide it like he had with being gay.

***

Sherlock went for a walk a little over a month later and the cctv cameras stopped following him everywhere. Mycroft must have been convinced that he was clean. While he was walking Sherlock had thought on whether or not he was transgender. He’d been thinking about it almost nonstop the entire time. But without more research he’d hit a wall.

Some days he felt like climbing the walls since he couldn’t wear makeup and go out. Other days he wondered why he was so worked up about the whole thing. The makeup was an interesting diversion but he didn’t want to wear it again.

He was confused and he hated it.

Sherlock was tempted to just throw everything feminine away and pretend like none of it ever happened. It was just a disguise, nothing more. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead he bought makeup bags, organized everything and hid it out of sight.

The glare off a shop window momentarily blinded him. Sherlock turned away from the street and sun, looking at the shop next to him. He was walking past a store that sold women’s shoes in men’s sizes. In the window was nearly the exact same shoe he’d wanted from the makeup video. A leather pump with tassels with brushed nickel tops. He stared it at for a short moment before ducking into the store.

He exited the store with three boxes. One containing the shoe from the window, one containing black flats with black sequins and a pair of stiletto booties. He took a taxi home and buried the boxes in the back of his closet.

The next morning, he was up when Mrs Hudson brought him his tea.

“Good morning, Sherlock.”

“Morning, Mrs Hudson.”

She poured his tea and made it up just how he liked it. She brought it and the tray of biscuits to him. “Haven’t seen you wearing makeup for a bit.”

He hummed.

She took a seat in John’s chair. “You’ve been moping too; did something happen when you were out?”

No, something happened when he came back. “Mycroft ruins everything,” Sherlock said. He knew that would get Mrs Hudson to bash his brother. He loved it when anyone did but especially Mrs Hudson who usually only said nice things about everyone (outside gossip and even then, she was rather tame).

“Don’t you let him get to you. He doesn’t know a thing about anything.”

Sherlock smirked.

“You should go put some on. I’ve not seen you happier than when you were all made up outside a good murder.”

He hadn’t been, either. Not for ages. Not since before he jumped. _Not since John,_ the nasty little voice reminded him. _And you’ll never be that happy again._

“Shut up.”

“Really, Sherlock. I’m just trying to help,” Mrs Hudson said.

“No, not you.” He sipped on his tea and ate a biscuit so he wouldn’t have to explain himself.

Thankfully she didn’t ask.

They sipped their tea in silence for a bit. Mrs Hudson broke it first, “You spend so much time trying to fix everyone else’s problems you forget about yourself. You should do whatever makes you happy and if other people have a problem with it they’re not worth your time.”

Sherlock knew this, but he’d spent so much crafting his protective persona. It seemed silly to let that all go to waste. It was there for a good reason.

“I’m going to tidy up for a bit. You should go down to the morgue and see if Molly has any nice body parts for you.”

That sounded like a lovely idea. “Thank you,” Sherlock said. He wasn’t sure what he was thanking her for, the tea, tiding up, insulting Mycroft, or the advice. Or if it was just that it was nice to know someone still cared about him.

Molly didn’t have anything for him but a butcher he’d helped once was willing to give him a sickly-looking pig liver. Sherlock wasn’t sure what he was going to with it yet (after he figured out what was causing the pustules of course) but it didn’t matter.

He had the thought while he was bagging the liver that he could wear his new shoes around the house. If someone came over he could slide them off.

When he got home he went to his closet, dug out the boxes and put on the shoes from the window. They fit like a glove and although he had a bit of trouble walking around in them at first he quickly got the hang of it. He looped the heels over the foot ring of his stool so half the shoes rested on one side and the heel sat on the inside as he examined his liver.

After dissecting the organ, examining several slides and some internet research Sherlock decided the scarring and pustules were likely caused by Swine HEV. Sherlock set aside samples to take to the labs at Bart’s to see if he was right.

Sherlock realized his feet were a little numb when he stood to put the samples in the fridge and he walked around trying to get the blood flowing again. He walked up and down the stairs a few times and took a quick trip around the block. The cctv would be too grainy to see anything properly and he wasn’t likely to run into anyone he knew on the street. Then his feet started to hurt. He was determined not to let his transport get the best of him though. He took out his violin and started composing to distract him from the pain and to try and think.

The song was half finished and he still no closer to knowing if he was transgender or not. Sometimes he felt like a woman but there were other times he felt like a man. It didn’t make any sense!

Frustrated Sherlock put his instrument away and took out his laptop. If Mycroft saw his search then so be it. He couldn’t take not knowing any longer.

Sherlock read and read and read. He read stories of people who always knew they were transgender. He read stories of people who figured it out later in life. He read stories about people who thought they were transgender but accepted their assigned gender after a certain period of their life. He read about people who were agender, who had no gender. It wasn’t quite right but it was closer than the others so Sherlock focused on them and came across the term non-binary. That’s when he found the Wikipedia page on Genderqueer.

There he finally found a word that seemed applicable: genderfluid.

He leaned back in his chair. The word felt right. And the definition, _“A person who is genderfluid prefers to remain flexible about their gender identity rather than committing to a single gender. They may fluctuate between genders or express multiple genders at the same time,”_ actually fit. Some days he felt feminine, other days masculine; but it was more than that. He wasn’t a feminine man but he knew he wasn’t a transgender female because some days he felt like a man. Did he feel like a woman? Probably. He’d never accepted the word woman for himself because he didn’t realize that he could for some days but not for others.

Sometimes he was a man, other times he wasn’t. He wasn’t crazy. It was an actual thing and other people felt like he did. So many people they had a word for it.

The nagging sensation in the back of his mind dissipated. He felt like he was floating. It was nearly the same sensation he had when he realized his was gay only this didn’t come with debilitating fear. He was still free to express himself openly on the days (hours, minutes, weeks, months) he felt like a man.

Sherlock heard Lestrade’s heavy steps on the stairs. Sherlock felt his feet scream as he slid off his heels. He quickly shut the laptop.

“What?” Sherlock asked. He’d intended to come across as bored and annoyed but he could hear the excitement in his voice.

“I’ve got a body,” Lestrade said.

“Then you’re clearly not a ghost.” Why was he making jokes? Was he really that giddy? He must be because he found his words hilarious.

“A dead body.”

“Oh, then you might be a ghost.”

“ _Sherlock,”_ Lestrade pleaded. “My team is busy at another crime scene and I’ve got a crew that doesn’t have a clue what they’re doing.”

A case sounded lovely. He knew better than to act too keen through. He’d hate for Lestrade to think that he was high and call Mycroft. His jokes probably hadn’t helped. He’d need to keep himself in check.

“Why should I bother?” Sherlock asked.

“Well, technically I’ve only got half a body,” Lestrade said with a gleam in his eye. He clearly held the fact back for dramatic impact, to entice Sherlock into taking the case.

It wouldn’t have normally worked (well, actually, it might have depending on how bored he was) but he wanted to get out of the flat and celebrate. Since he couldn’t go to a club figuring out where the other half of a body was the next best thing. Depending on where the other half of the body was it might even be better.

“Text me the location, I’ll be right behind.” Sherlock stood and his abused feet cramped up. He wobbled.

Lestrade reached out, ready to catch him if he fell. Lestrade shot Sherlock a furtive look once it was clear Sherlock had regained his balance.

Sherlock pretended nothing had happened. He hadn’t gotten high in ages, Mycroft had found all his stashes the last time he came through the flat and he hadn’t gone out to get more. Lestrade would see that Sherlock wasn’t using and everything would be fine.

***

Everything was rotten. Sherlock’s feet hurt every time he took a step. Lestrade hadn’t stopped watching him. The case was boring. The body had been cut in half by accident. Some teenagers were playing with a front loader (the workers had left the keys). The girl’s body had been crushed by the bucket and split under the pressure. The body was right next to the train tracks. It had been split against a car. Half the body had fallen on top of the train and the other half was still at the construction site.

Just like the Bruce-Partington Project. He sighed heavily when he saw the scene. It was obvious from just one look. There really was nothing new under the sun.

The only good thing about the case was that he didn’t have to give a statement. Anyone could have figured this one out and Sherlock was happy to let Lestrade take credit. Unfortunately, he hadn’t spent enough time around Lestrade to convince him that it was an innocent stumble and his jokes hadn’t had anything to do with drugs.

They were in the middle of nowhere and Sherlock didn’t want to stand around for a taxi. He just wanted to get home and ice his feet.

“Lestrade, take me home.”

“What?”

“You dragged me out here and the case wasn’t even a two. Take me home,” Sherlock demanded imperiously.

Lestrade stared at him, dumbfounded. “Yeah, alright,” Lestrade said after a long moment.

Sherlock sat in the front and waited for the question.

He didn’t have to wait long. “Why am I taking you home? You hate riding in cop cars.”

“I injured my feet. I didn’t want to stand on them for the time it would take to get a taxi. Since you dragged me out of my flat….” Sherlock trailed off.

It was a long way back to Baker Street and Lestrade was apparently unable to sit in silence.

“How’ve you been?” He asked innocently.

“Not high.” Sherlock said as he scrolled though his inbox. Clients were few and far between ever since John announced he was no longer updating his blog.

“I wasn’t implying—”

Sherlock cut him off. “You were thinking it. And I can tell you honestly that I’m sober.”

“Right,” Lestrade said.

Sherlock thought that’d be the end of their conversation but Lestrade tried talking again.

“Saw John the other day. He didn’t stop to talk, how’s he been?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Sherlock drawled as if he didn’t care. “He hasn’t spoken to me in over six months. Blames me for the whole thing with Mary.” It had taken John about six months to stop telling Sherlock to sod off every time he tried to get in contact, if that counted as speaking to him.

“Oh, right,” Lestrade said quietly.

There was a painful silence after that.

“How’s Mycroft?”

“Oh, for god sakes, Lestrade! Must you fill every silence with incessant babble?!”

After a tense moment Lestrade said, “Thanks. For your help with the case, would have taken us forever to solve it.”

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock said. His ire was gone. He was just tired. He wasn’t even going to bother soaking his feet, he’d probably feel better in the morning without him having to bother.

“You know if something is bothering you, you can tell me, right?”

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“You’ve been distracted lately. Agitated. You’re better today but, if there’s anything you want to talk about….” Lestrade trailed off.

Sherlock would normally say something dismissive and delete this whole interaction. He would have assumed that Lestrade was trying to get dirt on him to use to make fun of him, like that time Irene drugged him. That video haunted him for ages. But Sherlock deduced that Lestrade was sincere. He had the same expression as Mrs Hudson had when she was worried about him. Lestrade’s was a little more uncomfortable but he was more uncomfortable with emotions.

Or was it something else?

“Why?” Sherlock asked. At Lestrade’s expression he clarified, “Why would you care? I solved all your cases, I’m fine.” Every single case Lestrade had sent his way in the past month he’d solved. They’d taken him longer than when John was around but he’d done it. And he should have been less distracted and agitated than the months he was still thinking John was coming back.

“Sherlock, I’m your friend. I actually do care about you, you know.”

Really? “Why?” They had a professional working relationship. Lestrade used him to help his career as much as Sherlock used him to keep from getting bored. They weren’t friends. They didn’t go down to the pub. The only time they spent together socially Lestrade had come at John’s request. John and Lestrade were friends, John used to be friends with Sherlock, so occasionally they spent time together because of John. Honestly, Sherlock thought that Lestrade hated him. Lestrade was irritated with him for one reason or another almost every time they interacted.

And the one time Sherlock called on Lestrade for help that didn’t involve some sort of crime (when Sherlock was writing his best man’s speech for John’s wedding) Lestrade had been livid with him. Sherlock didn’t know why, probably something to do with the helicopter.

“What do you mean, ‘why?’ We’ve known each other for years. I’ve been working with you longer than I was married to my wife.”

“So?”

“ _So,_ I’ve grown attached to you.” He muttered, “Though only God knows why,” mostly to himself.

Sherlock looked at him. He knew he could deduce the real reason Lestrade was saying this. He just had to look closely enough. There had to be some sort of clue. A detail that he’d dismissed. He ran though their interaction. The only thing that was unusual was Lestrade asking Sherlock about his brother.

“Oh,” he gasped when he figured it out. “You’re interested in dating Mycroft. That’s why you’re being nice to me.” He wrinkled his nose. It was disgusting. “You’re better off asking out Molly. My brother has no interest in relationships.”

“Molly isn’t interested.”

He knew this. She was still stuck on Sherlock. It was depressing, really. He wanted her to stop her advances, but he didn’t know how to tell her that wouldn’t be considered rude. If he was rude the supply of organs would stop and he’d have to wait until Lestrade or another officer showed up to look at a body every time he was on a case.

“And I’m not being nice just so you’ll help me with your brother. I care about you as a person, Sherlock.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose again. There were no signs that Lestrade was lying. Sherlock had known him long enough that he could always tell when Lestrade lied.

“I know you care about me too. Mrs Hudson explained that you kept telling me about my wife cheating because you thought I deserved better.”

Sherlock scoffed but it sounded hollow.

“I know you’re a good person underneath all,” Lestrade took one hand off the wheel and waved it in Sherlock’s direction, “that.”

It was John’s doing. Lestrade hadn’t thought he was a good person before John. He wasn’t a good person before John. It was debatable whether he was a good person now, but he’d passed some sort of test somehow. It certainly had something to do with John.

“And, for the record, I know what happened with Mary wasn’t your fault. It’s wrong of John to blame you.” And with that Lestrade was finally quiet.

***

Despite the pain Sherlock endured yesterday Sherlock was determined to keep wearing his heels. He didn’t feel like a woman today but he still liked these shoes. If women could walk around in heels all day every day, so could he. When he needed to rest his feet he researched being genderfluid. What did it mean that he still liked his heels when he was a man? Was that normal?

He couldn’t find any definitive information beyond the definition. There were things that a lot of people agreed on when it came to falling outside the gender-binary but there were things no one agreed on. Then there was the hate. He saw cis people who hated trans people, he saw trans people who hated non-binary people, he saw non-binary people who hated genderfluid people. He saw genderfluid people who hated other genderfluid people. And some of the things seemed so small, “he doesn’t use they/them pronouns,” “they make the rest of us look like we can just choose to be the gender we were assigned at birth,” “he isn’t transitioning so he doesn’t count,” some of the things were things people couldn’t help, “they were born a girl so it doesn’t matter if they dress like a man, they don’t have to deal with discrimination like I do,” “they were so old when they realized they were transgender they didn’t suffer like I had to,” Sherlock hated it.

But it still made him think. He wondered if he should change pronouns. He’d been calling himself a man for nearly forty years. He tried saying them all in his head and he preferred he/him but he was feeling like a man today. Would that change when he felt like a woman? There was no information to be found online about it.

Sherlock decided to keep track of how he was feeling and which pronouns sounded best and to use the ones that applied most often based on his mood. He couldn’t have Mrs Hudson saying she/her one day then expecting her to know to call him they/them another. It’d be hard enough for her to break the habit of saying he/him if he decided to go that way.

He needed a palette cleanser after all his reading so he composed for a bit. When his feet hurt too much to stand any longer he pulled out one of John’s old medical journals and read. He eventually had to take off the heels when his feet started swelling and he put his feet up on the couch’s arm rest while he read.

Before bed Sherlock tested all of the pronouns again. This time none of them sounded right. He decided he’d been thinking about it too much. He’d make it an experiment and create a chart he could fill to help him analyse his data in the morning.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock woke up and took stock of himself. His feet hurt, he was sure of that but he wasn’t sure of anything else. He didn’t feel like a man or a woman today. Wasn’t, he corrected himself, wasn’t a man or a woman today. He was nothing. He tried out his pronouns and found he didn’t really care which one was applied to him. He didn’t want to wear makeup, he just wanted to be comfortable.  

Was he depressed? 

He took stock of his mood. Not depressed, just a bit rundown. 

When the mystery nagged at him enough he went back to that first Wikipedia page and read the genderqueer page again. This time he figured he was agender. Did that mean he was always agender and he was just feeling more masculine or more feminine those times he called himself a man or a woman (assuming he’d ever really felt like a woman)? Was he mistaking masculine and feminine for man or woman? Did genderfluid include being agender and he’d just not experienced it since he started taking stock? 

He didn’t know and he wasn’t going to do a search. He couldn’t deal with any more hate. 

He started narrating everything he was doing, substituting the gender pronouns to see if he could nail down the one he liked best for his spreadsheet. 

“They opened Excel. They created a new spreadsheet. She entered man, woman and agender into the rows. He copied and pasted those three times. She added she/her, he/him, they/them to each term. They thought all those sounded perfectly acceptable and now he has no idea what she’s going to enter for this morning.” 

Figuring there must be a pronoun that sounded right and he just didn’t know it, and that searching pronouns would be relatively safe as long as they didn’t click on an article, Sherlock went back to the browser. 

“Xe/xem, ze/zie, ve/ver, per/per, e/ey/em…” Sherlock read.  

He groaned and buried his face in their hands.  

“Xe sat back and started narrating again. Ze thought this whole thing was more complicated than it needed to be. Ve is frustrated because per sounds like an idiot narrating eirself.” 

“Sherlock?” Mrs Hudson called from downstairs. “Do you want some lunch?” 

“That was an idea. Everyone could always refer to Sherlock as Sherlock and Sherlock could refer to Sherlock in the third person and skip the whole thing altogether.” 

“What?” Mrs Hudson said, clearly not understanding a word he was saying if she could hear her at all. 

Sherlock rubbed his temples and groaned again. 

They decided to join Mrs Hudson as they could smell that she’d made more than enough food for two and Sherlock didn’t want to be left alone with her thoughts. 

By the end of the day Sherlock ended up adding new lines to their spreadsheet, man, woman, agender with no pronoun preference abbreviated to npp so it matched the other rows and he didn’t have to extend the column. She’d decided to stick with he/she/they since they were more widely accepted and none of the others seemed to be a better fit anyway. Which, when they thought about it, was a pretty rubbish way of thinking, he should be worrying about how he felt not how easy it would be for other people to define them. All the same she didn’t add the rows. 

She put a little x in the box for agender, npp for 12/1/18 morning, afternoon and night before turning in. 

\---- 

“Caught you, you fucking faggot,” Westley said when he’d tackled Sherlock. “We all saw you getting off to that picture, the naked man. You thought you were so much better than us. But we found that and your women’s fashion magazine stuffed under your mattress. Want to take it up the arse so much? I can give it to you.” He ground his hips into Sherlock’s arse. 

“Hey, what are you doing? Get off him!” The headmaster came around the corner and heard Westley's little speech.  

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft said with distain, “You should have known what would happen keeping those things around where other people could find them. And stop taking subscriptions to women’s magazines. You’re a man.” 

“Why?” Sherlock asked. Why did he have to act a certain way to be a man? Why did his skin crawl when Mycroft said things like that? It was wrong. He wasn’t like that. It was wrong! 

“If you want to wear a dress, wear a dress. There aren’t the rules you think there are,” Uncle Rudy said. 

“There are rules, Sherlock. You have to fit in.” Mycroft said. “Dress well but always subtly. Don’t stand out. I’ll teach you how to read people so you can at least tell when they’re going to beat you up. You can deduce your peers and then you’ll see them for what they really are: stupid children not worthy of your time.” 

“But everyone else has friends. There’s even a girl in my class that sits with me at lunch. She tells the bullies to leave me alone.” 

“Stop trying to make friends. You’re not suited to friendship. Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side. And I do wish you’d stop calling yourself by your middle name; William is much more appropriate. If you hate it so why not Scott?” 

But William and Scott were boys’ names. Sherlock was better. Sherlock was strange, like Mycroft. And none of the boys in the class had a name like that. None of the girls did either. It was neutral, like him. 

A sharp pain bit into his foot. There was a dog, a puppy, digging its needle-like teeth through his shoe and into his foot. 

Victor called the dog off, apologising profusely. 

“I’ve told you it’s fine. I don’t mind,” Sherlock said. Victor was the most beautiful man he’d ever seen. 

But that was a gay thought. He couldn’t have those. They led to gay sex and gay sex led to AIDS. He’d die. 

But he was already dying. His suits were stifling, a necktie was choking him. He couldn’t breathe! 

The men pulled his head out of the water and Sherlock sucked in a deep breath. 

“Do it again,” the Serbian said. “Then the battery.” 

“No!” Sherlock shouted right when they shoved her head underwater. She sucked in a lungful. When her head was pulled out again she choked out the water but didn’t have time to get a breath before her head was pushed under again.  

They always kept her trousers on, it was a relief. She knew she had a cock under there. It was a nightmare, she should have a vagina. But if it kept their hands away from her it was fine. 

Only it wasn’t. 

It was wrong. They pulled her head out of the water and brought out the battery. 

She couldn’t cry. Men didn’t cry. Everyone said she was a man. She couldn’t give away that she was a woman. 

Sparks flew when the men touched the leads together. 

Sherlock woke up and gasped in air. She ran to the bathroom and was violently ill. She sobbed, and tears ran down her cheeks as her stomach emptied. It was mostly bile and it got into her sinuses. It burned and she sobbed again. 

When her stomach was empty and the dry heaves stopped she blew her nose. She remembered the things she was trying to repress. She hadn’t understood what was happening, what she was feeling, at those times but all this thinking about her gender had made it clear. It finally made sense. She curled into a ball on the tiled floor and cried herself to sleep. 

*** 

“Oh! Sherlock, are you alright?” 

Sherlock woke with a start. She (he? They? No, she) looked around, confused, blinking in the light. Her body was sore from sleeping on the tile and being sick last night. Her dream, brought on by the anniversary of her time in Serbia, made it clear. She was, sometimes, a woman. 

“Got sick,” she croaked.  

She’d thought she’d wake up depressed, but crying had helped. She’d never allowed herself to cry before about Serbia or the bullying when she was out of primary or Victor. Or John, although she hadn’t been thinking of him last night. She blew her nose and got to her feet. “Tea?”  

“In the living room, dear. I just came in to tidy up a bit. Are you alight? Do you need anything?” 

Sherlock shook her head. As she drank her tea and nibbled on a biscuit she opened her spreadsheet. 

13/1/18 Morning: woman she/her, x 

She figured she shouldn’t change last night’s entry since she’d already gone to sleep. She closed the spreadsheet. 

The odd thing was that she knew she was a woman today but she didn’t want to do her makeup or anything. Even her heels didn’t appeal to her today. She just wanted some comfortable clothing and a quiet day in the flat.  

Except she forgot how boring things were when they were quiet. All the cases in her inbox were missing pets or cheating spouses. She tried composing but she had stupid hands today and kept fumbling over the notes. She was in a good place with her gender identity problem and she didn’t want to go looking for trouble by trying to do more research. Lestrade didn’t have any cases for her. 

“Bored!” she shouted into the empty flat. She heard Mrs Hudson turn the volume up on the telly downstairs. 

She could go ask Molly for some body parts but she didn’t feel like doing an experiment. She wasn’t hungry and she didn’t need anything from the shops. 

“BORED!” she bellowed. “Boooooorrred!” she yowled. 

Mrs Hudson’s volume turned down. She shouted, “If you’re lonely just come down and watch telly with me! Either way quiet down!” The volume turned back up. 

Sherlock scowled. She wasn’t lonely. She was bored. She was perfectly capable of entertaining herself. Except that she wasn’t because she was screaming for someone to entertain her.  

Yes, ok, she was lonely.  

“Fine,” she muttered and flounced down the stairs.  

Mrs Hudson had banned Sherlock from speaking and had given her biscuits as a bribe (and to keep her mouth full so she couldn’t talk). It mostly worked.  

They watched TV for hours. Sherlock knew Mrs Hudson was tired of it but she also knew that Mrs Hudson was keeping it on for her. Mrs Hudson knew Sherlock wanted company but the moment the television turned off Sherlock would feel obligated to go back up to her flat where she’d be alone. Sherlock appreciated it more than Mrs Hudson knew. 

Eventually Sherlock felt a bit better and went upstairs so Mrs Hudson could turn off the telly. 

Sherlock opened her spreadsheet. 

13/1/18 Afternoon: woman she/her, x  

She closed her laptop.  

It was strange to be comfortable referring to herself with she/her. Not in a bad way, strange in a good way. It felt bizarre, like buying shoes that fit better than an old pair so she didn’t feel a pinch in her toe that she was accustomed to having. But these shoes were terrifying and she didn’t want to be seen in them. 

She hadn’t been sure that she’d ever felt like an actual woman before. Feminine, yes. But it hadn’t really happened since she started paying attention to it. Maybe a bit, but never like today. Or perhaps she just did and just couldn’t appropriately embrace it. After those nightmares she really came to understand how she was feeling.  

Wanting to avoid any bad dreams in the future Sherlock stretched out along the couch and entered her mind palace. She couldn’t supress everything about Serbia no matter how hard she tried but she could go though her past and understand how being transgender (and she obviously was, even if she couldn’t figure out for sure if she was genderfluid, agender or something else outside the gender binary) had affected her in the past. She thought it would help her accept herself.  

She thought through all the memories the dream had brought up and sorted them. He’d been a man, a woman and agender in those memories. She sorted through other memories that bothered her for some unknown reason. Most of them were because she hadn’t felt like the man everyone was making her(/them/whatever--depending on the memory) out to be.  

When she opened her eyes, she’d settled on pronouns. When she was a man he preferred he, when she was a woman she preferred she, when she was both she preferred them and when she was neither she didn’t have a preference. Which made the next question more difficult, what pronoun did she prefer to be called in the future? Of course, this was assuming she ever let anyone know that she was transgender. 

The chart would be helpful. She’d be able to go though all the pronouns and see which one came up most. It would probably be best to choose that one as she’d be most comfortable most often. But what if the pronoun was he? She  _hated_  hearing he when she was a she. At least, she did now. Would that change? Sherlock decided she’d add a notation to her sheet. She’d keep the x for what pronoun she liked best and she’d put a c in for whatever she found close enough.  

Sherlock opened her spreadsheet and put a little c in 13/1/18 Afternoon: woman they/them. She could assume that the other two options, in this case npp and he/him, were not applicable/not acceptable. She didn’t go back and add data to the past entries since she didn’t want to skew the results. Something she thought she found acceptable now might not have been acceptable then. 

“Yoo, hoo,” Mrs Hudson knocked on her door.  

Sherlock quickly snapped the laptop shut despite the angle. Mrs Hudson wouldn’t have been able to see the screen even if she walked in the room. 

“Sorry, dear.” Mrs Hudson clearly recognized from the action that she’d interrupted something important. “I was just wondering if you wanted dinner. I needed to know if I should make enough for two.” 

“No,” Sherlock said. She was still full from the biscuits.  

John would have had a fit. He would have said something like,  _“Sherlock, you’re not on a case. You need to eat some real food. He’ll have some, Mrs Hudson.”_  And then John would have thanked Mrs Hudson for making them food despite not having any yet. And Sherlock wouldn’t have really minded the “he” because she wouldn’t have ever known that she was transgender if John were here. She would have thought the twinge of annoyance was at John forcing her to have food. Since she never would have put on the eyeliner that started this whole thing. 

“Thank you, for asking,” Sherlock said. 

Mrs Hudson smiled brightly, “You’re welcome.” She went back downstairs happily. 

If Sherlock had known that it was that easy to make Mrs Hudson happy she would have started thanking Mrs Hudson for things she hadn’t done years ago. Well, better late then never. She made a note in her mind palace for the future. 

Sherlock was at a loss on what to do next. She looked around the flat. Maybe she’d go down to Bart’s even though she knew Molly didn’t have anything for her. She had those samples of that swine liver to test. 

She put on some socks and went to put on her shoes. Before sliding her foot in she hesitated. She had those sequins covered shoes. They were flats, it wouldn’t be too strange, they were still black and looked unisex. A little bit of a change, mix things up a bit. She was in such a good mood she felt like she should treat herself. 

Digging into her closet she pulled out the box. She slipped them on her feet and wiggled her toes. The sequins was understated it was only when light caught the edges that it was obvious they weren’t simple black shoes. And the reflected light wasn’t blinding. In the low light of the lab it would take someone really observant to notice them. Not her level observant, but more observant than most people were. 

She bounded down the stairs with her sample and rode to Bart’s with a smile on her face.  

It was like she was a snake and she’d just shed an ill-fitting skin. The skin below was raw and needed protection but felt so much better. She wondered if that analogy was offensive. Then she decided she didn’t really care. One could find someone offended by anything and it made sense to her. It shouldn’t matter what anyone else thought of it. It was her business. There was so much of this she didn’t understand and so much she didn’t understand about herself. Fixing the former would surely help the latter but she didn’t want to spoil what was shaping up to be a pretty good day with idiocy.  

The lab wasn’t empty and she had to wait to use the machine she wanted. Feeling uncomfortable around the strangers she wandered down to the morgue. Even if Molly wasn’t in, it wouldn’t be full.  

Molly wasn’t in. In fact, no one was. The pathologist on duty must have been occupied elsewhere. Sherlock plopped her samples on an empty morgue drawer and closed the door to keep them cold. She wandered around, looking at things and tucked a packet of scalpel blades into her pocket. Her scalpel was getting dull and this way she’d have plenty for the foreseeable future.  

Someone came in the door and Sherlock spun around to face them. 

“Sherlock,” Mike greeted cheerfully. “Heard you were skulking around.” 

“I don’t skulk,” Sherlock huffed. 

Mike smiled affably. “Listen, I wanted to talk to you. I have a person looking for a flat share. I know John’s moved away and I was wondering if you were interested.” 

“No,” Sherlock said quickly and shook her head. She couldn’t imagine trying to sort herself out and have another person around to see it. A person who might not be ok with her walking around in heels or wearing makeup or having heads in the fridge. A stranger moving into John’s room, touching John’s things ( _they aren’t his, they’re Mrs Hudson’s_  the little voice reminded him), sleeping in the place John had slept. Carving out a life in 221B, possibly carving out a place in Sherlock’s chest. “No,” she repeated. She couldn’t do that again. 

“No worries,” Mike said. “They’re just having trouble and I thought you might get on. They’re nice, but misunderstood, a bit like you.” 

Sherlock snorted. Why did everyone think they knew her all of a sudden? First Lestrade and now Mike acting like she was someone  _nice_. She wasn’t nice! Then she realized what Mike said. They was the pronoun he’d used for them. That was unusual for someone Mike was obviously close to. If one barely knew someone and didn’t make much note of their gender one might use them but not someone who shared confidences.  

She wasn’t looking for a flat share or a friend. But she wanted to talk to this person. See if they could help her. But that would involve her opening up to them. They wouldn’t want to share everything to some nosy stranger. Besides, they might not be transgender, or they might be but might not be genderqueer. She wanted to talk to someone who was genderfluid to see if the things she felt were normal. Talking face to face would ensure that she wasn’t talking to a troll online and that Mycroft wasn’t reading her every word over his cake break. 

“Nice shoes,” Mike said. 

“Oh, thank you.” The light in the morgue must have been bright enough for Mike to notice. He clearly wasn’t observant, thinking Sherlock was just misunderstood. She realized she’d said thank you to Mike and wondered if her bad habit of thanking Mrs Hudson was going to seep into every conversation she had. She must just be having an off day. She was so focused on herself she wasn’t paying attention to her façade like she should be.  

Still, it was nice that someone noticed her shoes and even better that they liked them. She looked down shifted her feet so they’d sparkle a bit. These shoes were cute and even better they were comfortable. 

“So, what are you up to? Solving another murder?” Mike asked. 

“Oh, no. I have some pig liver bits to examine in the lab but my equipment is being used by other people.” 

Mike chuckled. “That happens,” he said. “That class should be finishing up here soon, though. The lab should be empty within the next ten minutes or so.” 

He didn’t correct Sherlock like John would have.  _“It’s the hospital’s equipment, Sherlock. It’s not yours. They have more of a right to use it than you do.”_  

Sherlock grunted.  

Molly strode in and squeaked when she saw Sherlock. It was tiresome.  

“I told you I don’t have anything for you,” she said. She didn’t say it rudely or even shortly but it was something she wouldn’t have said before Sherlock’s faked suicide. It gave her hope that Molly would eventually move on.  

“I remember. I’m here to use the lab but it’s occupied.” 

“Oh, ok then.” Molly went into a back office and came out without her horrid juvenile cat purse and with her lab coat on. She also came out wearing lipstick.  

Sherlock’s hope crashed through the floor. She sighed. 

Molly started opening refrigerated doors and taking inventory. When she got to the drawer that Sherlock had left her sample on she put on gloves and took it out. She set it on the counter saying, “I told you not to store things in there,” with a stern look. 

Sherlock rolled her eyes and walked over to collect her samples just in case Molly got the urge to throw them away.  

Molly had turned to watch Sherlock and Sherlock ignored her until she said, “Those shoes….” 

“Yes?” Sherlock said, clutching her samples to her chest. 

“Are they for a case?” 

Sherlock considered her answer. She could say yes, Molly would smile and be happy, deluding herself into thinking that it was one of Sherlock’s quirks and nothing more. Or Sherlock could say no and Molly would spend the rest of the day wondering what it meant that Sherlock was wearing shoes with sequins. It might plant help the seed that Sherlock had been trying to plant in Molly’s mind that she was gay take root and grow and maybe Molly would finally get the hint. Molly probably wouldn’t think of Sherlock being transgender. Sherlock hadn’t ever given clues of being transgender before.  

“No,” Sherlock said. Please, she thought, please figure out that I’m gay.  

Except, Sherlock wasn’t gay, was she? Because if she was she might like Molly. Because she was a woman now. 

Oh, god, what was Sherlock’s sexual orientation now? She couldn’t say heterosexual, she couldn’t say homosexual, she couldn’t even rotate between them depending on the gender of the day because what about when she was agender? And, if she were open to dating and having a sexual relationship, she wouldn’t have a problem whatever the person’s gender was as long as they had a penis. But was that offensive? She couldn’t help that vaginas freaked her out. She didn’t want to have sex with one. If she had to she probably could but she could never participate in oral sex with one. But did vaginas only freak her out because sometimes she wanted to have one?  

“Sherlock?” 

She was having trouble breathing.  

“Sherlock.” 

Why did she want to have one sometimes? Simply because it felt wrong to have a penis or was it something more? She wouldn’t want to have surgery because sometimes it felt good to have a penis and the idea of having breasts made her uncomfortable. Why hadn’t she thought about this before? It come up in some of the things she’d read. Transgender people were either gay or straight and how they’d coped with it. But she hadn’t read any from a genderfluid person’s point of view where they cared. There was only one story and that person had been pansexual. After Sherlock looked up what the word meant she knew it didn’t apply to her and moved on.  

“Sherlock!” 

Sherlock realized she was surrounded by people and shook herself out of her thoughts. “Excuse me,” she said, and left quickly.  

It wasn’t until she was back at Baker Street that she realized she hadn’t tested her samples. They were still in her hand and since they were mostly in tact she put them back in the fridge.  

She exhaled shakily. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still looking for a beta if you or someone you know would be interested please let me know.

Now that Sherlock was alone, safe at home, it didn’t take her too long to calm down. Honestly, she wondered at herself. Why did she--as John would put it--freak out?

Sure, a term she’d applied to herself, accepted and simultaneously repressed was no longer accurate but that was no reason to abandon an experiment. And why was she so eager for Molly to figure out she was gay if she wanted to hide it so much? Presumably, she’d just tell Molly she wasn’t interested in her and leave her sexuality a secret.

Had she accepted being gay to the point that she was ok sharing the fact with people she trusted?

Maybe. And if that was the reason it no longer mattered. She wasn’t gay.

She opened her laptop and searched. She thought it wouldn’t matter what the other person looked like but the more people she looked at the more she realized she was mostly attracted to masculine and androgynous people.

Sherlock tried looking at some porn and was repulsed by vaginas. She tried but she just didn’t feel attracted to them. They were gross on women and they were gross on men. She looked at some penises on women and found those ok, not as hot as on men but still attractive. She had to face it, she was attracted to certain genitals. She felt guilty about it, it felt transphobic to say she was attracted to men but exclude men who hadn’t had surgery. At the same time, she couldn’t help it that vaginas were disgusting.

She looked at more porn and found herself masturbating to trans women. It was the makeup, she thought. It was easy to put herself in their place. And when two trans women went at it with each other it was hot.

It was useless to feel guilty, she decided. If it was widely accepted that gay men couldn’t help what genitals they were attracted to it shouldn’t be unacceptable for her to be attracted to only certain genitals as well.

If it was ever necessary to give an answer Sherlock could say that she was unlabelled. It was a perfectly valid sexual identity, but she had a feeling that Donovan would be cracking jokes that she was into necrophilia if she did. Technically she fell under bisexual as it defined sexual attraction to two or more genders. Bisexuals weren’t attracted to every person they met and the term could be used to exclude transsexuals if necessary, even though it seemed most bisexuals were repulsed by the idea that their sexuality was transphobic. And Sherlock’s wasn’t, she’d still be attracted to transgender people and willing to sleep with them if she liked them and they had a penis. But when she went through the entire crisis that led to her repressing her homosexuality she’d rejected the term. She didn’t feel comfortable applying it to herself now.

She could always just say, _“I like cock,”_ but it would be crude. Although, it’d be accurate and in any situation she could dream up where she was forced to give an answer to what she was sexually attracted to it’d be more than appropriate.

Done masturbating, Sherlock went back to her gender identity issue.

Sherlock found that if she stuck to scientific sites she could avoid the hatred that turned her off her gender identity search to begin with. Sherlock learned that nonbinary did not mean the same thing as genderqueer. Nonbinary implied that the person’s gender was not binary. Genderqueer was the proper term for her, as it implied female, male, neither or a combination of both. Genderqueer sounded horrible to her, though. It reminded her of the slurs she’d endured during her life. So, genderfluid. However, according to most sites, the term didn’t include the sensation of being neither male nor female, agender. Because that fell under genderqueer.

Of course, a lot of the information on one site would contradictory to the information on others. Only the strictest sites stressed the difference between nonbinary and genderqueer. So, even though it might be technically wrong she could identify as nonbinary and, for most people, that would be good enough. Some of those sites seemed out of date though. And a lot of sites didn’t exclude agender from the term genderfluid.

Did that mean she could just choose her own term?

No, that couldn’t be right. She’d just have to dig deeper.

After even more research as best she could figure (because this was a new and very complicated area) she was genderqueer. Even though she didn’t like the term it was accurate. Since she stressed accuracy over sentiment she’d just have to get used to the term.

It had been hard to find porn that wasn't just fetishized but it existed and she liked it.

So, as best as she could figure, she was bisexual.

She was attracted to men, nonbinary people, and even some women as long as they had a penis.

“I am bisexual and genderqueer,” she said aloud and winced.

She reminded herself of the necessity of exactness. This entire gender identity crisis had left her overly in touch with her emotions. It was time for that to stop. She pulled up the spreadsheet and entered: 13/1/18 Night: woman she/her, x, woman they/them, c.

Sherlock shut her laptop and went to bed.

It took a bit for her to get to sleep and when she did she dreamed that she cut her hair like John’s, wore a suit like Mycroft and was annoyed with people calling her anything but he/him.

He woke up and tested his pronouns. “He got out of bed, she went to the loo and they brushed their teeth after,” Sherlock narrated. It was he today (wasn’t he? Why did that feel off?). In fact, the thought of being called she made his skin crawl. Just thinking about putting on makeup or his heels made him feel sick. He wondered if he was just being crazy. Maybe he was a man who liked girly things after all. Maybe Sherri had just planted an idea in his head and he’d allowed it to take root and his whole crisis was him just being insane.

 _“You’re mentally ill, we think it’s bipolar disorder. You’ll need to come in for some more tests,”_ the doctors had said.

He never did.

What if he was finally cracking? He wasn’t normal. He’d always been able to rely on his mind but he’d been stuck in an emotional mindset since John left. _Since John came,_ the voice argued.

“Shut up,” Sherlock snapped at it. He realized he was talking to himself. He put his fingers to his temples and rubbed small circles to try and dissipate his headache.

Well, even if he was cracking he wasn’t going to a doctor. It was just another thing he’d sweep under the rug. His emotions might be getting the better of him but he was perfectly able to do the work and that’s all that mattered.

He got into the shower and started washing his body. The more his hands moved the more uncomfortable he felt. His skin itched. It was wrong. He put his hands against the wall and bowed his head. “What is happening to me?” He was male. He was in a male body. He was fine. What exactly was the problem?

Sherlock decided to just ignore it. He’d logic his way through. He was a man in a man’s body. There was no reason for his transport to feel wrong except sentiment. He finished washing up and he went to his closet.

He selected a light blue shirt to go with his suit. While he was buttoning it up he caught sight of his reflection and stopped. It was wrong. He unbuttoned it and looked back into the closet. It was just the colour. He needed something more masculine. White would work. He started doing up the buttons but the fabric scraped against his skin roughly. He ground his teeth and powered through. His suit jacket was stifling. His trousers were the only item of clothing he felt comfortable in. Sherlock ignored it.

He went to his laptop. He ignored the excel spreadsheet and went to his website. He hadn’t updated it in ages, since before his faked suicide. He reposted his analysis of tobacco ash. There was no reason for him to have taken it down in the first place. It was interesting, useful and although the masses didn’t care his blog wasn’t for the masses. It was for him and other people who could appreciate it. Brilliant people.

People like Moriarty.

That thought sent a shudder down Sherlock’s spine. But Moriarty had been fun until he targeted John and to a lesser extent Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. There was no John to protect anymore and no one would know he cared about the other two. (Or that he cared about other people at all.)

Sherlock took out his mobile.

**To: Lestrade**

**I need a case. -SH**

The reply was immediate.

**From: Lestrade**

**I don’t have anything you’d be interested in but you’re welcome to come down and look through the cold case files.**

“Humph,” Sherlock huffed and went back to his blog. He posted his finished analysis of perfumes and closed the case of the aluminium crutch.

Then he didn’t have anything left to do. He could write up his other cases but he mostly let Lestrade take credit for them. He didn’t want to take that away from Lestrade. Sometimes Lestrade had gotten in trouble after John’s posts.

Sherlock drummed his fingers over the keys, not pressing hard enough for the strokes to register. What to do now? Go look at cold case files?

After considering his other option, going down to Bart’s and examining his pig liver, Sherlock decided to go to NSY.

***

“He’s been in there for an hour,” Donovan complained loudly enough for him to hear.

Sherlock’s skin crawled at her choice of pronoun. He checked, he still felt like a man. He was fine before. He wrinkled his nose and got back to the current case he was looking at.

“Yeah, and he’s already solved four cases. Leave him be, Donovan,” Lestrade said.

There it was again, the shivery slimy feeling at that pronoun. He tried the sentence another way in his mind, _“Yeah, and she’s already solved four cases.”_ Sherlock frowned. It still wasn’t right. _“Yeah, and they’ve already solved four cases.”_ That was better.

Why?

Sherlock imagined himself in women’s clothing and it made him as itchy as the clothing he-- _they--_ were wearing now. “Ridiculous,” they chastised themselves under their breath. They mentally went through their wardrobe and found that they’d like to just wear a comfortable tee shirt, trousers, and their sequins shoes. Gender neutral items.

Then it clicked. They weren’t a man or a woman today, they were both. And because they were so intent on repressing their feelings they hadn’t noticed. That dream hadn’t helped either. Sherlock made a noise of irritation. They’d have to get the chart out when they got home.

They turned their attention back to the case, looked at two crime scene photos and threw the file into the solved pile.

Eventually, they were kicked out of the conference room for a meeting so they took the solved case files into Lestrade’s office. They walked him through everything with more patience than they usually had. They realized they were usually short with Lestrade because they felt uncomfortable. They’d thought it was boredom but sometimes it was because they’d felt wrong in their body and other times it was because the case was over and they were about to be alone again.

They had a love-hate relationship with being alone.

“Thanks, Sherlock,” Lestrade said when the statements were complete.

Sherlock grunted and took their leave. They took a cab back to their flat and dressed in the outfit they’d thought of at NSY.

They opened their laptop and entered 14/1/18 Morning: man he/him, x simply because its what they would have entered in the morning if they’d bothered to do so. In the slot for afternoon they put a little x in both they/them. Since the other three options, he/him, she/her, npp weren’t applicable they didn’t put the c in.

They thought about going over and checking their pig liver, but they weren’t dressed properly. People would find what they were wearing odd.

“That’s their problem,” Sherlock said to themselves. They didn’t have to explain themselves. Besides, the only people they were likely to run into were Mike and Molly. They’d be safe.

Sherlock grabbed their coat and headed back out.

They still thought using “they” for themselves felt odd. Perhaps that was just because they’d been taught in school that it was a plural pronoun. Sherlock had argued in class about it, people used they as a singular when they didn’t know the gender of a person, but the professor had shot them down. Their classmates had teased them about it later.

The hospital lab was empty when they arrived. They arranged their samples and ran the tests. It turned out that they were right, the pig was infected with Swine HEV but there was a secondary bacterial growth causing some of the lesions that Sherlock had missed. It was possible the bacteria growth was exasperated by how long it’d taken them to run the tests.

Wondering if they should write this up on their blog or contact the authorities about the tainted meat they didn’t pay attention to where they were walking and ran into someone. The papers the stranger had been holding scattered everywhere.

“Oh, bollocks,” he said and started picking things up.

“Apologies.” Sherlock leaned over to help. They couldn’t help but notice the subject. “Bruising patterns after death?”

“Yes, I’m working on a chart to help forensic pathologists,” he said.

“I did an experiment on that not too long ago.” Eight years ago. Why did it feel like such a short time? “I only managed the riding crop, though.” Sherlock picked through some of the charts. “Nothing like this.”

“Oh my god,” he said. “You’re Sherlock Holmes! Molly sent me your pictures, they were the reason I did this project. I couldn’t get bodies for my data, I had to rely on solved crimes. These are the copies of the information I could get from the police.”

“Um,” Sherlock wasn’t quite sure what they were supposed to say. Another fan? Which type was this?

“Sorry, I’m making you uncomfortable. I’m just…” he waved his free hand, “I don’t know what I’m saying.” He frowned. “My name is Tina. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Mm,” Sherlock hummed noncommittedly. The second type then. A pity, they could have enjoyed chasing down a serial killer.

Tina’s expression hardened. “Right. Well, sorry.” He scooped up the rest of his papers in a hurry.

Sherlock was taken aback. What had they done wrong? They thought through the interaction before realizing the problem. “Are you, by chance, friends with Mike Stamford?”

“I know him, yes,” they said icily.

“Sorry, Mike never said your name when he asked if I had a room to let. I don’t, just to be clear. But I’d love a chance to talk to you.”

“Why? You must be able to _deduce_ everything about me. Just want a laugh?”

“It just so happens that I am in need of data.” Sherlock looked around, making sure there was no one about. “I’m currently conducting an experiment.”

“That’s nice,” Tina said frostily.

“About my preferred pronoun,” Sherlock admitted. They hoped they weren’t making a mistake trusting a random stranger but if worst came to worst they could claim they were simply collecting data. It would be horribly offensive, but then, outing someone against their will was more so, in their opinion. Besides, Mike had vouched for Tina and everything that Sherlock was able to deduce from them screamed trustworthy.

Tina’s eyes narrowed. Then they widened. “Oh,” they gasped. “You’re—”

Sherlock cut them off. “Yess,” they hissed. “You’re the first person I’ve told. I figured you’d understand.”

Tina was practically vibrating with excitement. “Oh my god! I can’t believe… Sherlock bloody _Holmes!_ I just can’t even!”

“Yes, very exciting I’m sure,” Sherlock said indifferently.

That’s when Tina teared up. With a sniffle, they said, “I’m sorry! I just can’t… I’ve idolized you for years. And now….” After trailing off they hiccupped.

Sherlock was panicking inside but kept their mask on. “If people see you crying they’ll think I said or did something unspeakable to you. Stop it!”

They leaned their head back and blinked rapidly. “Sorry, sorry. I’m fine, really.”

“Well then act like it!” Sherlock demanded quietly.

Tina laughed wetly. “Let me put these away and I’ll—”

“Not here. Too many people. Come by my flat. The address is 221—”

“Oh, I know your address, it’s on the website. I was so happy to see you’d updated it. I followed John’s blog, of course, but I liked yours much better.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but preen at the praise. They made their way back to Baker Street with a smile on their face. As the cab weaved its way there Sherlock’s face fell. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea. In fact, it was a pretty awful idea. They didn’t share themselves, their feelings, like this. They’d only relaxed around John and Mrs Hudson and one of those had thrown it in their face. Just like everyone else that they’d tried to befriend did.

 _“You’re not suited to friendship,”_ mind palace Mycroft said.

“Shut up.” They knew they weren’t. They didn’t need reminding. They weren’t going to befriend Tina. Just gather information for their experiment. See if there were any areas of this journey of self-discovery-- God no! This… _whatever it was_ that they’d overlooked. They needed an expert and what better expert than one who’d gone through the whole thing themselves? An obvious choice over the idiots who claimed to study psychology but were only interested in explaining how someone was a freak.

And maybe the flat wasn’t the best place to have the conversation. God only knew what kind of listening devices Mycroft had installed. And he’d get a lot from video. Sherlock had enough time to find everything if Mycroft had been sloppy.

Sherlock’s heart leapt into their throat. They’d been walking around in heels! They hadn’t done their makeup or anything but Mycroft would be able to deduce right away that Sherlock wasn’t just wearing the shoes for an experiment! Of course, Mycroft hadn’t come by to torment them about it so maybe Mycroft wasn’t looking through the feed himself. He probably had a minion doing it. Since heels didn’t have anything to do with a relapse the minion had ignored it. But Sherlock having a client over would get Mycroft’s attention. Even when there was little risk of relapse and John had been around Mycroft had monitored Sherlock’s clients.

“Stupid, stupid!” Sherlock tugged at their hair.

“Two, two, one Baker Street,” the cabbie said.

Sherlock threw some notes at him and went into their flat. They started looking for bugs but Mrs Hudson, damn her, had dusted recently. It was impossible. They’d never find everything in time if they had days to look. Why did they keep the flat in such disarray?

They couldn’t even take Tina down to Mrs Hudson’s. Mycroft would abduct Tina off the street to find out what Sherlock was hiding. Not that Mycroft would have to resort to that as he’d be able to figure it out with just one look.

Maybe, just maybe, they’d get lucky and the minion in charge of keeping tabs on them wouldn’t find this interesting and Mycroft would be occupied with starting a war or something. One could hope.

There was the sound of the door opening downstairs and an exclamation from Mrs Hudson. Sherlock squared their shoulders. Well, nothing for it. They’d have to come out to Mycroft eventually. They’d like to have chosen a different way to do so but maybe this was better. Mycroft would have time to adjust before they saw him.

A heavy tread on the stairs, reluctant… Sherlock knew that tread.

“Lestrade?” They asked right when the man turned the corner.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade greeted. “I’ve got a weird one.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock hummed and peaked out the curtains. This could work to their advantage. They could tell Mrs Hudson to send Tina away with the excuse of a case. But, Tina might not want to come back. They’d been surprised by Sherlock’s admission and more flexible than they’d normally be. They’d been the subject of a lot of ridicule. It would be a risk coming and talking to Sherlock who was known for being abrasive and invasive. Tina might be rethinking as they spoke. They’d still show because they’d promised.

“Yeah, found a couple homeless people drugged with all their teeth removed.”

“So, no murder.” Sherlock acted like they didn’t care. They’d take the case after they’d talk to Tina. They couldn’t have someone preying on their network.

“Well, no,” Lestrade admitted. “I just thought because you are friends with some of them—”

“I am not friends with them, I don’t have friends.”

“Shut up, you’ve got me.”

Sherlock didn’t argue. They didn’t want to be friends with Lestrade. It put Lestrade at risk. The whole conversation was throwing Sherlock for a bit of a loop anyway. It was too similar to the Baskerville case. Sherlock had said they didn’t have any friends there either and John had gone off all in a huff. Why was that different than this? Why had John decided to get so hurt over it?

“Anyway, since you’ve got a relationship with them I thought you’d be interested.”

“I’ve got another client on their way. If their case proves to be boring I suppose I can look into yours.”

“Right,” Lestrade said and turned before hesitating. “What are you wearing?”

Sherlock looked down at their tee shirt, trousers and sparkly shoes. “Clothing?”

“Well, yeah. But…” Lestrade floundered a bit before asking, “Where’s your suit?”

“In my closet,” Sherlock responded flippantly. They could see that Lestrade was worried about them. And not just about the drugs, either. But their dismissive response put Lestrade more at ease.

“Ok, I’m going to go back and get to it.”

“Have fun,” Sherlock said with mock brightness.

Lestrade sighed heavily and went back downstairs. Sherlock could hear Lestrade and Tina meet at the doorway. Lestrade didn’t linger and gave a hurried greeting.

Tina’s footsteps on the stairs were hesitant. Just like Sherlock had thought Tina had second thoughts about their meeting. Tina peaked around the door.

“Oh, wow,” they said.

Sherlock could deduce that they were chuffed at being in Sherlock’s living space. That they’d wanted to see how Sherlock lived. From their expression, Sherlock had exceeded their expectations, whatever those were.

Sherlock would normally have their client sit on the couch while they paced. Or on a chair from the table while they sat in their leather one. But this might turn out to be a long conversation and it would be best if they were both comfortable. There was no John to take notes (and Sherlock was a bit relieved about that in this instance) so Sherlock grabbed their laptop.

They gestured to John’s chair, “Please, have a seat.”

It was here that the host would normally offer tea but Sherlock didn’t want tea, they wanted to get started. If Mrs Hudson made her way up she could make tea. Otherwise, they’d go tea-less. That social convention could be safely ignored in this case.

“Thank you,” Tina said and sat quickly. Once Sherlock was seated Tina asked, “So, what did you want to know?”

“Let’s start at the beginning. I know you’re transgender. What term do you use to describe yourself?”

“Um, agender,” Tina looked uncomfortable.

Sherlock wrinkled their nose. They’d been hoping Tina was genderqueer like themselves. Still, their information would be useful, if nothing else then for the times Sherlock felt agender themselves.

“How did you know?” Sherlock asked.

“Well, there were clues throughout my childhood, but I guess I really knew when I went over to a friend’s house. He told me that he wanted to transition, I was the first person he told.” Tina was clearly proud of this. “I didn’t want to offend him, so I was supportive and quiet until I went home and started doing some research.”

“And that’s when you knew?”

“Oh, no. It was clear I wasn’t a woman from my research and when I went through my memories I thought I was a man, at first. But the more I wore traditional men’s clothing and went on testosterone it became clear that it still wasn’t right.”

“You went on testosterone without counselling?” Sherlock asked. They didn’t know the protocol, maybe that was recommended. It just seemed like all the stories they’d read online involved therapy in one way or another.

“No, I had a therapist, she just wasn’t a very good one.” Tina shook their head and looked away. “I found myself more comfortable in my body, at least and it felt better when I looked in the mirror but….” They shrugged. “So, I searched around and found other people like me, that didn’t fall into the gender binary. I didn’t accept that I was agender, at first. I wanted to say I was genderfluid. But, like I said, I was never really truly comfortable in overly feminine clothing or overly masculine ones either. I lowered my dose of testosterone and when I looked androgynous I felt happy. That’s when I accepted that I was agender.” Tina looked back at Sherlock, “It’s not the most traditional story, but it is what it is.”

 _“And what it is, is shit,”_ the little voice said.

Sherlock reminded themselves that never happened and shifted in their seat to try to refocus.

“Why did you think you were genderfluid?” Sherlock asked.

“Well, some days I felt more feminine than others, not by a lot, mind you, not like I wanted to wear a dress or anything like that. Sometimes I wanted to wear makeup but I always wanted to pair it with a three-piece suit. Which, you know, was confusing.”

Sherlock imagined it would be. They wondered if they’d want the same the next time they felt agender.

“Enough about me,” Tina said with a wave of their hand. “Tell me about you.”

That wasn’t something Sherlock wanted to do. Tina had given Sherlock a lot to think about but Sherlock didn’t want to expose themselves any more than they already had. They hadn’t asked all their questions either. They worded their next question in a way that it looked like Sherlock was giving away something but Tina would give away more.

“I’m having trouble deciding on a pronoun. It seems like the one I’d like to use varies on the day.”

Tina frowned in thought. “I can’t help much with that I’m afraid. I honestly don’t care what pronoun people use for me. I use they for myself and some people I’ve shared this with choose to do this as well, but for those people I don’t come out to I let them decide. The first time someone called me a man I was so excited.” Tina’s eyes lit up then fell, “Of course, it didn’t last long.”

Not wanting to hear a depressing sentimental story Sherlock jumped in, “That time you were called a man, if you’d been called a woman would your skin have crawled?”

Tina’s eyes narrowed before they shook their head. “I don’t think so. But my friend did. He hated it when people used ‘she’ for him.”

It was evidence that Sherlock was not agender, they supposed. Although, Tina could just be strange in that respect. There was no way to know without a bigger sample size.

Sherlock and Tina chatted a bit after that, Sherlock always made sure not to give much about themselves away but didn’t learn much more from Tina.

“Hey, quick question,” Tina said as they were getting ready to leave, “I’ve always hated the name Tina. What do you think about Taylor, Tarot or Terry?”

“Not Tarot!” Sherlock was scandalized. “The other two are perfectly acceptable.” What on earth had possessed this person to even consider Tarot?!

Tina threw back their head and laughed, most likely at Sherlock’s expression. “Ok, thanks.”

Sherlock nodded. They took Tina’s number in case they needed more information. They hadn’t taken notes but it was after dinner. They thought about it a moment and entered an x in 14/1/18 both npp and a little c in both they/them. If this trend continued Sherlock would be using they/them. Would they do what Tina did and only let those they trusted know? Sherlock bit their lip. It had a lot of pros but at the same time it had cons.

Sherlock decided to keep thinking about it. They were just winding their scarf around their neck, shifting mental gears to think about Lestrade’s case when they heard the door open downstairs. They hadn’t heard anyone knock and there wasn’t the sound of Mrs Hudson greeting the person. Their hands stopped moving and they cocked their head, listening.

The person downstairs hesitated for a bit before climbing the stairs slowly.

“Oh,” Sherlock gasped quietly when they recognised the footfalls.


	5. Chapter 5

This was the last thing Sherlock was expecting. Why now? What do they do? Where do they stand? How should they react? Why now?! They mussed their hair a bit and pressed their lips together. They needed a mirror, but no time. Thank god they weren’t wearing makeup or their heels!

They watched John peek their head in the door. When John noticed them he looked surprised, as if he wasn’t expecting to see Sherlock in the flat. As if Sherlock had been the one who left, never to return. Sure, Sherlock had left but they’d always intended on returning. Of course, they’d expected John to be waiting, which was horribly unfair of them, especially considering they were gone for two years and supposed to have been dead.

“John,” Sherlock greeted.

“Sherlock, hey.” John rubbed the back of his neck. “Um…” he shifted uneasily before noticing Sherlock’s attire. “You got a case?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Just on my way out.” Why was John here, standing in their living room? Why now? What had changed? Sherlock looked John up and down but all the deductions read: _John, John, John, John, John._

“Right, should have called, I guess.” John rocked back onto his heels.

“It’s boring, barely even a two, really,” Sherlock said, trying to see past the _John, John, John_ to the person below.

“You’re bored then, I take it?” John said.

_John, John, John, John…_ “No, actually. Found a way to occupy myself for now. It’s… more of a favour.” _John, John, John._ Finally, the words broke up and they could see John’s face. He wanted an invitation. He was the bored one.

“You can come if you’d like,” Sherlock invited.

His expression soured. “I don’t want to be a bother.”

Sherlock figured he was fishing for something, but they had no idea what. “If you don’t want to you can wait with Mrs Hudson. Otherwise come along.” Sherlock brushed past John as if they didn’t care if he came or not. As if their whole world hadn’t just been turned on its axis. They jogged down the steps.

The sound of John’s footfalls followed.

Since John couldn’t see their expression they allowed themselves to smile.

***

Sherlock woke up in pain. Their mouth was being forced open by some device and they could hear someone talking nearby, but they couldn’t make out the words. Their jaw hurt and they were drooling. What was going on? Why were they so groggy?

They inhaled sharply and choked on saliva. They tried to cough from their reclined position and turn to their side but their hands were tied behind their back and the rope was looped down to the chair.

The case! They’d found a lead. Then what happened? John had said to call for backup and…

John!

Where was he, was he ok?

Sherlock looked around frantically.

“Oh, you’re finally awake,” a voice said.

The voice came from behind Sherlock’s head and they couldn’t see the person, no matter how hard they tried. They knew if they could just see the person they’d be able to deduce if John was captured too.

“We’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”

The owner of the voice entered Sherlock’s field of vision and Sherlock sagged in relief. John was fine, he hadn’t been captured. Sherlock remembered running off. John must not have been able to keep up.

“We’ve been waiting for you to find us. Knew if we preyed on your little ‘network’ you’d come running. Now we’re going to get revenge,” the man said. He picked up a dental drill and a high-pitched whirr filled the warehouse.

Sherlock very nearly rolled their eyes. They knew this case was boring. The man was droning on about how Sherlock had ruined his network and locked up his brother and blah, blah, blah. But, as long as he was talking he wasn’t trying to torture them, which was good. Sherlock pretended to be interested as they moved, the idiots had tied them up but hadn’t taken away their mobile. If they could stretch a bit they’d be able to reach it and send a text for back up. Sherlock didn’t fancy getting their teeth drilled into but at least it didn’t remind them of Serbia too much.

Texting blindly wasn’t easy, but Sherlock managed. The last person they’d texted was Lestrade and the thread was still open. They couldn’t craft actual words but Lestrade would understand to search the GPS location. The little whoosh sounded loud in the warehouse.

It earned them a punch to their face. The mobile clattered to the floor and as Sherlock’s head reeled. Sherlock was aware enough to notice that no one bothered to pick up or turn off the mobile.

Idiots.

That’s when the man came out of the shadows with a pipe.

Sherlock couldn’t help the whimper. They were thrown roughly to the floor and beaten. They focused on breathing and trying to spit out the mouth prop but it was wedged in too firmly. They tried to disassociate so they wouldn’t remember this and focused on the fact that their body would heal better than their teeth would. The pipe was a preferable method of torture in this case.

There was a shout and the man wielding the pipe stopped hitting Sherlock. Sherlock turned to see him advancing on a short figure also brandishing a pipe.

A short blond figure.

Sherlock, ignoring the pain in their ribs and arms rolled over to watch as John took the two men out. A third came out from the shadows as John was running over to Sherlock.

“Aah oua!” Sherlock shouted, eyes wide.

John turned and dodged the swing of the baseball bat. John defeated that assailant too and Sherlock just sat back in awe of John Watson. As often as they’d seen him in action it never got old.

He was beautiful.

“You idiot! You stupid, bloody moron!” John angrily untied Sherlock.

Once Sherlock’s hands were free they pried out the mouth prop and worked their jaw. They wiped the saliva away and noticed some of it was mixed with blood. Their head hurt and they figured they must have an open cut somewhere.

“You could have died!” John was busying himself freeing Sherlock’s feet.

“They weren’t murderers,” Sherlock argued. “They were dentists. Well, the one was anyway.”

Police started swarming in and some paramedics came over to Sherlock.

“I’m fine,” they said and tried to wave them off.

“Like hell you are,” John muttered and forced the orange blanket over Sherlock’s shoulders. Other paramedics were taking care of the suspects, John had done considerable damage to them. One obviously had a broken arm.

John took a penlight from a paramedic and shined it in Sherlock’s eyes. “I don’t think you have a concussion,” John said.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock repeated. They wiggled around a bit and decided nothing was broken. “A bit bruised up but ok.”

“Is this what you’ve been doing while I was gone? Running off and trying to get murdered?” John hissed as he dabbed at the cut on Sherlock’s forehead.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade marched over. “What have I told you about going off on your own?! You were doing so good, what happened to waiting for backup?”

Sherlock opened their mouth but after a guilty glance at John closed it.

John didn’t seem to notice but Lestrade did.

“Get in the ambulance, we’ll get you checked out then you’re giving me a statement. Both of you,” Lestrade said.

“I don’t need to go to the hospital,” Sherlock argued. “I have…” Then they stopped, John was their doctor, but John wasn’t planning on moving back in. It was clear from John’s shoulders that they weren’t going to stay the night.

Sherlock coughed to cover some of the awkwardness.

“Maybe that’s for the best,” they said since John and Lestrade still weren’t saying anything. “John can give his statement now and I’ll give mine tomorrow. A&E will probably take most the night.” They didn’t want to keep Lestrade up and their jaw was smarting, talking was making it worse.

They waited for someone to argue. When no one did Sherlock picked up their phone and tried to order a taxi. Lestrade protested, “If you get into a taxi you’ll just go home. If you don’t want to ride in an ambulance let me take you.”

“Fine,” Sherlock huffed, trying to ignore John’s look. Sherlock knew John would want to know why Sherlock was allowing themselves to be driven around by Lestrade now. And it was probably good not to get into a habit. They should have refused, now that they thought about it.

“Meet you in my office, John?” Lestrade twisted the statement into a question as if John might say no or argue.

“Yeah,” John agreed and went off to find a taxi.

As Sherlock rode in the seat next to Lestrade they closed their eyes. Now that John was gone it felt like they were back in Serbia. Sore, exposed, raw.

“You alright?” Lestrade asked.

“Fine,” Sherlock said again. The question was getting tedious. “I told you not to get involved with my brother,” Sherlock said to change the subject.

“What are you talking about?” Lestrade asked as if Sherlock was blind.

“You slept with him. I hope you aren’t contracting feelings for him. He’s not capable of returning them,” Sherlock said as if Lestrade was still impartial. They didn’t understand why Lestrade insisted on loving people that didn’t love him back.

“You say that like love is a disease,” Lestrade said. Ignoring Sherlock’s snort, he continued, “And he’s capable of sentiment, he cares about you.”

That was complicated. Sherlock knew that his brother cared for him, but Sherlock suspected it wasn’t as deep and brotherly as people thought it was. Yes, Mycroft was capable of sentiment but at the same time, he wasn’t. Sherlock thought that they were more suited to sentiment and relationships than their brother (and that was saying a lot). It wasn’t that Mycroft only cared about them only as far as it affected their career and it wasn’t that Mycroft cared about them as a person. There was a middle ground Mycroft fell into that was difficult to put into words.

“And stop putting yourself in danger for John’s sake. I know that’s what you did, don’t deny it.”

Sherlock didn’t.

“He worries about you, you know. And you’re just giving him more nightmares every time you go running off alone.”

Yes, Sherlock agreed, but if they didn’t go running off then John wouldn’t have to chase them and the limp would return. Sherlock had seen a glimpse of it in the flat, John had held onto the bannister just a little too tightly and walked down the stairs a little too slowly.

They arrived at the hospital. Sherlock gave their name at the desk at the A&E and after Lestrade got Sherlock to promise to stay and get checked out he went to the yard to do paperwork.

Sherlock allowed themselves to be poked and prodded and scanned and tested. In the end, it was just as they thought, a bit of bruising but nothing serious. When they got back to Baker Street no one was waiting for them. They ignored the weight in their chest and went off to bed.

When they woke their jaw was locked up. They managed to take some of the pain medication they’d given him at A&E though it was difficult. They texted Lestrade but he said Sherlock still had to come in, that they could write out their statement. Sherlock did, and they didn’t take care to make sure the writing was completely legible. Lestrade pestered them about different facts and events and no matter how much Sherlock snorted and rolled their eyes Lestrade wouldn’t let them go. Sherlock couldn’t even say anything to try and gather information. Lestrade and John had clearly talked but Sherlock couldn’t figure out what was said.

Not being able to talk was the worst thing ever.

Finally, Lestrade let them leave.

As they walked home they realized they hadn’t updated their spreadsheet last night or this morning. They tested the pronouns in their head this morning and decided he was preferable. He looked down at his suit and realized that he hadn’t even noticed when he got dressed this morning, he hadn’t considered that he might not want to wear a suit. He wondered if he just needed a good chase, if his mind was just eating itself from boredom. That he might not be transgender after all.

When he got home he still filled out the chart for this morning, 15/1/18: Morning, man he/him, x, man they/them, c, just in case. He didn’t go back and fill out last night’s because the time had passed and he might skew the data. It was probably unnecessary anyway, he figured. He’d just needed a good case, a good chase and John back.

***

John didn’t come back.

He didn’t call or stop by to go on another case. Whenever Sherlock tried to get a hold of him he didn’t respond. Sherlock wasn’t sure what he did wrong, it must have been something serious. It had been nearly a month with no contact.

Sherlock invited John out for dinner on the 29th but got no response. Sherlock figured John had forgotten their anniversary. Perhaps John never knew it, perhaps John thought Sherlock just wanted to go out for dinner on those nights and had never noticed that they’d always gone to Angelo’s.

Or, Sherlock thought, technically it was only the one night. After he came back from his faked suicide John hadn’t taken Sherlock up on his offer to go out. It was less a pattern of going out and more a pattern of invitations.

Every day Sherlock had been dutifully marking his chart and every mark looked the same: man he/him, x man they/them, c. This morning Sherlock opened his chart and did his morning mental exercise. It pulled them up short when they realized today he was agender and didn’t have a pronoun preference.

It was with unsteady fingers that Sherlock entered, 13/2/18: morning, agender npp, x.

Sherlock had been hoping that this whole exercise was pointless, that they’d been taken in by a new idea and hadn’t been genderqueer at all. It was normal that people were on a gender scale, that virtually no one felt completely masculine all the time. That there were days that many men felt more feminine. He just wanted to be normal. And he knew that being transgender wasn’t a defect, but he felt like he wasn’t even properly transgender. He was different on the scale of being different.

He was sick of being different.

There were the sounds of footsteps on stairs, Lestrade had come with a case. An urgent case.

Sherlock stood and buttoned his jacket. “What is it?” He asked as soon as Lestrade’s head poked through the door.

“Kidnapping, third one in three days. Same note each time. Young kids, no connection that we can see.”

“Hm,” Sherlock hummed. That was unusual.

“Details,” Sherlock demanded as he put on his scarf and coat.

***

Falling onto his couch after the case Sherlock hadn’t even taken off his scarf or his coat. There was no way for him to have saved them. They were all long dead by the time he was on the case and he prevented any more. Still, finding their bodies, seeing them, what happened to them, the things they’d endured—

A high-pitched keen cut off Sherlock’s thought process and he realized he was the one making it. He quieted himself, it wouldn’t do to disturb Mrs Hudson.

He’d managed to make it home before he broke down. Managed to play the sociopath part properly. If John had still lived here Sherlock would have locked himself in his room as soon as they’d made it home. John would have understood.

It was good John wasn’t back on cases though. It was good John was spared _that_. He had enough horrible memories to last a lifetime, enough mental scars, John didn’t need this one too.

Knowing that John was on the other side of the door on cases like this always brought Sherlock comfort. It was clear why Sherlock was thinking of John now. Picturing him in the kitchen, filling the kettle, pushing aside Sherlock’s dried batwing to get the tea bags. Examining the sugar to make sure Sherlock wasn’t testing its preservative powers on a toe again before he added it to his mug. Sighing after closing the refrigerator door instead of slamming it because they were out of milk again, it had been a hard day and being out of milk just wasn’t important, considering.

Except Sherlock was staring into the kitchen and the room was dark, empty.

There wouldn’t be a knock on his bedroom door and the offer of tea because he wasn’t in his bedroom. There was no one to hide from and there was no one to make him tea.

The sun had set hours ago. Sherlock pulled his laptop over and entered a little x into 13/2/18: evening, agender npp. He wasn’t anything and, frankly, he didn’t care about anything. It probably wasn’t a proper entry, based more on emotion than science, but it really didn’t matter. None of his entries were real science. The whole experiment was sentiment.

It was stupid.

He was stupid.

If he’d just bothered Lestrade, forced the issue, he might have been given the case earlier. He was smart enough, there had been enough clues at the first crime scene. He could have saved the other two.

The laptop clattered to the floor.

Sherlock didn’t check to see if it had broken. He didn’t care.

***

“Yoo, hoo,” Mrs Hudson rapped her knuckles against the door frame.

Sherlock was too warm in his coat and he had an awful crick in his neck.

Mrs Hudson didn’t say anything as she played mother.

Sherlock rubbed the sleep lines on his face and stretched his neck. He held out his hands when Mrs Hudson came with a cup and saucer. She didn’t make any inane chatter until Sherlock’s cup was empty.

“Have a biscuit. I’m pretty sure you didn’t eat anything yesterday.” Mrs Hudson pushed the try across the coffee table with his cup full once again.

Sherlock took the tea but ignored the rest of it.

“Haven’t seen you go out in ages, Sherlock. Not for fun, anyway. You haven’t made a mess of my kitchen recently either.”

“Mm,” Sherlock hummed.

“You liked getting dressed up and going out. You shouldn’t let your brother ruin that for you.”

“Mm,” Sherlock hummed again. He really shouldn’t let Mycroft ruin anything for him. Mycroft ruined enough by simply existing. And Sherlock hadn’t made a mess of the kitchen because he hadn’t had any experiments. He hadn’t had any experiments because he was focused on John being gone again. He didn’t want to test things when his mind was elsewhere.

That’s how eyeballs ended up in tea.

But he hadn’t been able to solve the problem. He didn’t know why John was gone again and he’d probably never know. John was an enigma. He always had been and he always would be. He was a riddle with no solution. He should have driven Sherlock mad but he calmed Sherlock in ways no one else could.

And John had come back, for some unknown reason, and tested Sherlock. A test that Sherlock had failed because John was gone again.

“You should go out tonight,” Mrs Hudson said.

“No,” Sherlock said flatly. He couldn’t because Mycroft would come over and Lestrade would start looking for drugs again and Sherlock had just had a rough case. He didn’t need his home life turned upside down and his sock index destroyed.

“Sherlock, go out. I can see you had a rough case. Go blow off some steam. Go have fun. For me.”

Sherlock wanted to shake his head. He wanted to dig in his heels. He wanted to say no. Except he didn’t want to do any of those things. He wanted to go out.

Taking his laptop off the floor Sherlock looked at the clubs. A quick glance at the date told Sherlock it was Valentine’s Day. The clubs would be full of couples and desperate singles. They would be a nightmare.

But that DJ he liked had a gig tonight. At a gay bar.

_You’re not gay_ , the voice reminded him.

Except, he was. Except, he wasn’t. Did it matter, really? Right now, he didn’t care about labels. He didn’t care that his brother would have a fit. He didn’t care that it was Valentine’s Day. He didn’t care that he wouldn’t get a moment’s peace if he went out tonight.

He just wanted to go out, listen to some good music, have a couple drinks and dance.

Sherlock sent Mrs Hudson on her way. He showered, got dressed, took another shower because his hair dried wrong, picked out different clothing and dug out the makeup list he’d made after watching all those tutorials.

The bill was astronomical, and Sherlock was forced to use his card. Mycroft would know but Mycroft would find out anyway, so it didn’t matter.

Sherlock went home, pulled out his laptop, put a little x in 14/2/18: morning, agender npp. He had lunch with Mrs Hudson and watched some telly with her before heading upstairs. He put a little x in afternoon, agender npp.

Foundation with setting spray instead of powder. Eye primer, a medium peach eye shadow, white eye shadow, brown eye shadow, blend, iridescent gold eyeshadow applied with a wet brush, blend, more white eyeshadow, blend, gel with gold glitter over the top, careful, very careful application of liquid eyeliner along the lases with a little, miniscule wing, a bit of brown eyeshadow along the outside third of the bottom lid, mascara, blush (Sherlock wasn’t going to contour, that was absurd in London weather), lip liner, three shades of lipstick, lip gloss, and he was done.

A black shirt with an extra button undone, a pair of dark jeans, his sequins shoes with hair carefully mussed. He needed a manicure and he figured he’d go get one tomorrow. Otherwise, he was perfect.

Mrs Hudson must have waited by the door to see him go because she “happened” to be taking out the trash at the same time he was heading down the stairs. She fussed and told him he was beautiful and he made a show of not caring what she thought but when he entered the cab he was smiling.

The cabbie was homophobic but not overly so and Sherlock ignored his glances and glares, not wanting to start a fight. The upside was that the ride was quick, the driver eager to get him out.

Sherlock wondered why the cabbie had stopped for him in the first place before he realized that the driver must have thought he was a woman at first. It wasn’t until Sherlock spoke that the cabbie’s expression soured.

A small warmth settled in his chest. The cabbie had mistaken him for a woman.

Sherlock wasn’t a woman today--he was agender--but it still felt good.

_That’s not normal, you shouldn’t be happy,_ the little voice said. _You’re a man, you shouldn’t be wearing anything that causes your gender to be mistaken._

_Shut up,_ Sherlock mentally snapped and breezed his way into the club.

It was darker in this club, the lights predominantly red and pink in celebration of the holiday. Sherlock sauntered over to the bar and bought himself a drink. There were no empty seats and even spaces to lean against the bar were scarce. Sherlock found a spare bit of wall and leaned against it, eyes closed, listening to the music.

He found his glass empty and the bass soothing. He made his way onto the dance floor, alone. He wasn’t worried that no one had made a move on him. The crowd today was subdued. Most people were either here with their significant other or were waiting for someone else to make the first move. By hiding in the shadows Sherlock had avoided the predators here searching for an easy lay.

On the dance floor, he avoided them too. His eyes were shut as he moved with the music. The DJ had a different mix today, in celebration of the holiday or perhaps they came up with something different for every show. Sherlock didn’t have enough information to know. He didn’t care much either way as it was as fun to dance to as last time.

Someone pulled him out of his trance by grabbing his elbow. Sherlock blinked at them. He was too near the speakers for the person to say much, a tactic to avoid uncomfortable conversations and it was fun to feel the thud of the bass in his chest.

The man who took his elbow was… perfect.

Sherlock felt his mouth fall open and go dry.

He was tall, taller than Sherlock, blond, on leave from the army, going back soon, with a shirt so tight Sherlock could count every ab on his muscular torso, even in the dim lighting.

The man didn’t even try to say anything. He just maintained eye contact until Sherlock tilted his head to the bar. They weaved past couples and groups. The man ordered two waters and held one out to Sherlock.

“Not trying to get me drunk?” Sherlock asked, expecting the man to come on to him.

He just smiled at Sherlock crookedly. His expression told Sherlock that the man knew he didn’t need alcohol to pull and he preferred his hook-ups sober.

It was different. It was surprising. Sherlock wasn’t used to being surprised. People were boring. Except for John. Except for this man.

“What’s your name?” Sherlock asked in the man’s ear.

“Ian,” he said in Sherlock’s.

Ian’s breath ghosted over Sherlock’s earlobe and the side of Sherlock’s neck and he shivered in response. The man in front of Sherlock was walking sex. Sherlock shouldn’t be attracted to him. But he was. Ian was dangerous and interesting, and Sherlock couldn’t resist.

Feeling reckless Sherlock wrapped his and around the place where neck met shoulder and pulled Ian’s ear down saying, “My place?”

Ian pulled back, looked Sherlock up and down before nodding with a small smile.

Sherlock held his hand as he flagged down a cab.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock loses his virginity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OC sex happens here. Don't fret, Johnlock is endgame.

It wasn’t Sherlock’s first kiss, not by a long shot. It wasn’t even the first kiss Sherlock had with someone he liked and wasn’t just for a case. But it was the first kiss Sherlock had that would lead to something more.

And Ian was a good kisser. He was a very good kisser.

Sherlock nearly fell backwards through the door. Mrs Hudson heard the commotion and didn’t bother to act anything other than fond when she saw them. She practically cheered when Sherlock led Ian up the stairs.

Once they were in flat B Sherlock shut the door. Ian froze. Sherlock looked around and wondered what had put Ian off. Deciding it was probably the mess of the kitchen table Sherlock explained, “I’m a scientist.”

“I see that,” Ian said.

Sherlock was glad he didn’t have any body parts out if a few chemicals were putting his date(?) off.

“Bedroom?” Ian asked after a long moment looking around.

Suddenly nervous, Sherlock froze. Kissing was nice and he’d planned to take it further but did he really want to? This was going to be his first time.

_It should be special, with someone you care about,_ inner John said.

But inner John didn’t get a say in this because outer John didn’t want a one.

“This way,” Sherlock said and tugged on Ian’s hand.

They went through the kitchen and into the Ian pushed Sherlock onto his bed. Sherlock fell, bouncing a bit. He looked up at Ian with hooded eyes. Ian used the freedom to take off his shirt and Sherlock felt his mouth fall open.

“Like what you see?” Ian asked cheekily.

Sherlock didn’t trust himself to say anything so he just nodded.

Ian smiled his crooked smile and stalked over to Sherlock. He crawled onto the bed and Sherlock laid back. Soon Ian was hovering over him. Their lips met again and Ian lowered his hips against Sherlock’s and ground.

Sherlock groaned long and low. That felt fantastic. Sherlock raised his hips to prolong the contact. Ian straddled Sherlock’s thighs, maintaining just enough pressure to tease as he unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt. Ian pushed the shirt from Sherlock’s shoulders and started kissing down Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock could feel a tacky residue left on his skin from the first couple kisses. It was his lip gloss, it had transferred to Ian’s lips.

“You’re thinking too much,” Ian muttered into Sherlock’s skin before taking one of Sherlock’s nipples into his mouth.

The sensation went right to Sherlock’s cock and he arched off the bed with a cry. He’d heard that nipples were an erogenous zone and he’d tested the theory during one of his masturbatory sessions but obviously it was different with another person. Or perhaps it was just oral stimulation. Sherlock needed more data. Ian bit down gently and worried the nub between his teeth. Sherlock threw his head back with a groan and thrust his hips.

Oh, he needed a lot more data.

Ian licked lower and stopped at Sherlock’s scar. “This is…” he trailed off.

“A gunshot, yes.”

“How? You’re a scientist…”

“Mm, long story.”

“This should have killed you,” Ian said, crawling off Sherlock.

“Technically my heart did stop, but I’m obviously alive,” Sherlock said. This conversation was boring. He wanted more touching. Sherlock used the freedom to undo his cuffs and completely remove his shirt. He reached for the button of his jeans.

“But, you’re a scientist.”

Sherlock looked up at Ian with a glare. Clearly, Ian wasn’t going to move on without an explanation and Sherlock didn’t want to give away his identity. “If it bothers you that much I can lay on my stomach. Or do you not want to have sex?”

“Fuck. Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Agreeing with a petulant grimace Sherlock undid his trousers and took them off. His erection had flagged but he was still wound up enough that if Ian left Sherlock would have a wank. Sherlock toed off his shoes and took off his socks.

“You’re still gorgeous though. Sorry, about that. You’re stunning and if I haven’t ruined the mood I’d like to—”

“Good,” Sherlock said, interrupting the rest of Ian’s prattling. Pretending he wasn’t ashamed of his body Sherlock flung the rest of his clothing, including his pants, into the corner of the room.

Ian started removing his trousers. “If you’d be ok with it I’d prefer if you topped.”

Sherlock didn’t really care since everything was going to be a new experience and was either going to feel good or give him important data (or both). “Fine. You’ll have to tell me what to do.”

“Do you have lube? And condoms?”

“Uh…” Sherlock cursed himself mentally. Of course, he didn’t! Why had he thought this was a good idea?! What had he been thinking?

He’d been upset from John leaving and the case and everything else.

“Next time then,” Ian said. He didn’t appear to be put off.

Next time? “Sorry, I wasn’t planning on—”

“Shh,” Ian cut Sherlock off. “It’s ok, beautiful.” Then Ian knelt on the floor between Sherlock’s legs and wrapped his large hands around Sherlock’s hips. Then he nuzzled Sherlock’s stiff prick.

“Nnguh!” Sherlock squirmed as Ian started lapping at his cock. Shouldn’t they be using a condom for this? He hadn’t deduced that Ian had any STIs but…

Blood rushed south and Ian wrapped a hand around the base of Sherlock’s penis while holding his hips in place with the other. Ian engulfed all of Sherlock in one go.

“Aah! Oh, god!” Sherlock panted as Ian started moving. Sherlock could feel his feet moving, twitching, his back trying to arch, his hips trying to thrust into the moist heat of Ian’s mouth. Sherlock made the mistake of looking down. He met Ian’s eyes. Ian hollowed his cheeks and moved his mouth down to meet his hand, his nose buried in Sherlock’s pubic hair.

Sherlock mewled loudly and grabbed Ian’s hair. He wasn’t sure if he was pushing or pulling or both or neither. He was overstimulated and the sensations just kept ratcheting up. Ian had started moving his hand in counter to his mouth. Oh, god, he was going to come. What was the protocol for this? There wasn’t a condom. Would it be rude to— “Aarugh! Hunngh! Oh, fuck!”

Well, based on Ian’s expression some sort of warning was customary.

“Sorry, sorry,” Sherlock said between pants, “My orgasm caught me by surprise.” It had too. He thought he had another three seconds at least. “That thing you did, with your tongue, it was good.”

This seemed to mollify Ian.

Sherlock realized he was no longer a virgin. He didn’t really feel any different, except he kind of did. And that was odd. Or, perhaps he was still a virgin. Was penetrative intercourse necessary? Sherlock didn’t really think so.

The bed dipped and Ian pulled Sherlock out of his thoughts with a kiss. Ian kept it chaste, for which Sherlock was grateful, he didn’t much want to taste his semen on Ian’s tongue. When Ian leaned back he looked expectant.

Oh, he was supposed to reciprocate. That was a problem. Would it be too obvious this was his first blow job? He didn’t really want to return the favour, so to speak. He was kind of tired. But that was probably a bit not good.

Sherlock slid off the bed and knelt between Ian’s legs. He eyed Ian’s penis and thought about how to proceed. Ian wasn’t completely erect, so there was that. Ian had lapped at Sherlock until he was hard. Sherlock could imitate that. In fact, Sherlock thought, he could just do everything Ian did.

Feeling less overwhelmed Sherlock set to work.

He started with the little licks, adjusting to the taste along with providing Ian pleasure. Ian seemed to like it when Sherlock focused on the tip of his penis although the underside still made Ian groan. The stripes Sherlock licked got longer as he felt more comfortable and bolder. Ian was harder now, his cock bobbed occasionally and Sherlock used his hand to keep it in place. Ian had taken all of Sherlock in his mouth but Sherlock was still slightly intimidated so he wrapped his lips around the head only. Ian gasped. Sherlock teased Ian’s glans as he held the head in his mouth.

Ian was groaning, his hands clenched around Sherlock’s duvet. Sherlock took that for a good sign and moved his mouth up and down Ian’s shaft, taking a bit more in each time until his mouth met his hand. Sherlock pulled with his hand as he bobbed his head down but the action was rough. Sherlock pulled his mouth off to gather some saliva from the top to help.

He looked down, his index finger and thumb were red from the lipstick. Sherlock sighed a bit, wondering how much of a mess he was. Ian placed his hand on Sherlock’s head, fingers weaving through Sherlock’s curls. It was a reminder that Sherlock was in the middle of something.

Sherlock met Ian’s eyes. He wrapped his lips around Ian’s erection, hollowed his cheeks and sucked.

Ian groaned and tightened his hand in Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock moaned as Ian tugged lightly. Apparently, his scalp was an erogenous zone. The vibrations caused Ian to buck a bit into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock gagged, pulled off a bit and put his hand on Ian’s hip to hold him still. Sherlock didn’t fancy getting choked again. He went back down, he could tell that Ian was getting close. Sherlock found this interesting but his jaw was getting sore and he wanted it to be over soon. Holding his mouth open like this was reminding him of that case.

Thinking about what got him off the fastest when he was masturbating Sherlock set a quick pace, ducking his head down and pulling and twisting his hand. He wanted to lick Ian’s slit while doing that but he didn’t have the coordination. Ian’s testicles rose toward his body and he tapped on Sherlock’s head.

Not wanting to get a mouth full of semen Sherlock raised his head, wiping away the string of saliva that connected his lips to Ian’s cock. Ian flailed. Oh, of course, he needed stimulation. Sherlock moved his hand, adding a flick of his wrist at the tip.

Ian came with a gasp.

Sherlock let go and Ian took himself in hand, working himself through the orgasm. Sherlock noted that for the next time he did this.

Next time?

Did Sherlock want to do this another time? Why had he done it today, to begin with?

_Because it’s Valentine’s Day, you’re lonely, he’s muscular, blond and in the military. And, of course, his name is John. Are you really this obvious?_

“That was fantastic,” Ian said.

Sherlock silently disagreed from his spot on the floor.

“What’s wrong, beautiful?” Ian asked. He pulled on Sherlock, manoeuvring him up onto the bed.

Sherlock looked down at the red streak on his arm. Where had it come from? Oh, right, when he wiped his mouth. He could just imagine what his makeup looked like now. He resisted the urge to rub his eyes.

“Was it not good for you?” Ian asked since it was clear Sherlock wasn’t going to answer.

“No, no.” Sherlock waved the thought away. “The sex was fine—”

“Fine?”

“Good, whatever.” Sherlock really didn’t want to worry about hurting Ian’s feelings. He just wanted Ian out of the flat so he could sulk in peace.

“You know what? I don’t even know your name,” Ian said, wrapping a curl around Sherlock’s ear.

“It’s Sh- William.”

“Sir William?”

Sherlock glared at him. “William but people call me by my middle name.”

“And what’s that? I’m people,” Ian said with a roguish smile.

“Scott,” Sherlock said, thankful for once for his second middle name.

“Alright, Scottie. Can I spend the night or is that too bold?”

Sherlock blushed at the nickname and the saccharine tone Ian had muttered it in. He considered the question. He knew it was odd that his “date” wanted to spend the night, especially since it was still early. Did Ian want to go again? Was he intending to try to make this into a relationship? Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he watched deductions fly from Ian’s face.

_Single, military, gay, likes brunettes, leave ends soon, wants to settle down._ Sherlock’s eyes went wide at the last one. Ian was looking for a relationship. And he’d asked to stay to learn more about Sherlock.

_This won’t end well, you’re incompatible with a relationship. Make him leave now,_ the little voice said. Mind palace Mycroft agreed adding, _You got what you wanted. You have no further use for him._

Out of spite, Sherlock said, “Yes, you can stay.”

Sherlock hadn’t realized that inviting Ian to stay the night meant the Ian was going to be sleeping in Sherlock’s bed. By the time Sherlock was done showering and removing his makeup Ian had made himself comfortable between Sherlock’s sheets. Sherlock froze when he saw Ian and deduced that he was naked.

“Sorry, do you sleep on this side?” Ian asked.

“No,” Sherlock couldn’t say that he slept in the middle and Ian should go up and take John’s bed. He had been stupid not to foresee this.

Despite his wet hair, Sherlock got into the bed. He kept carefully to his side. Ian chuckled, got out of the bed, turned out the light and came back under the covers. Sherlock tried not to ogle Ian while he was up but he stared at Ian's tan lines, his firm buttocks, the thick muscles of his thighs and back as he gracefully moved to and from the bed. Despite coming a short time ago Sherlock felt his cock stir.

Ian turned to Sherlock and smiled at him. Sherlock could see his grin in the light from the street. "Hey," Ian said.

Sherlock grunted.

"Can I kiss you?"

Having never been in this situation Sherlock didn't know if Ian's actions were unusual or not. Either way, Ian was a good kisser and Sherlock didn't have any specific qualms about kissing him.

The kisses started out chaste before Ian licked into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock winced but the mint from his toothpaste covered the taste of his semen on Ian's tongue. Soon both tastes were gone and Sherlock was rutting against Ian's leg. Ian pulled Sherlock up on top of him as he rolled onto his back. Sherlock ground his erection against Ian's. It quickly made both of them fully erect.

Ian spat into his hand and wrapped it around the erections between their bodies. Sherlock moaned at the different sensations. He thrust against Ian and Ian's other hand groped Sherlock's arse.

Ian came first and he used his semen as lube as he worked Sherlock until he came all over Ian's stomach.

Sherlock flopped onto his back on his side of the bed. He grabbed a corner of his sheets and cleaned himself off. Ian asked if he could take a shower and at Sherlock's nod entered the bathroom.

Before Ian came back Sherlock was fast asleep.

Sherlock woke up warm. He yawned and tried to roll over. He got an elbow in the back for his efforts and was shocked awake. It took him a second to remember his night with Ian.

It had been nice. John had harped on him to have a relationship and Sherlock had always blown him off. At first, because relationships weren't his area but after John shot the cabbie he only wanted a relationship with John. Sherlock had always felt pity for Molly having a hopeless crush for so long but he was exactly the same, wasn't he? He'd been in love with John nearly as long as she'd been pining for him.

"You're adorable," Ian said, sleepily blinking up at Sherlock.

He hadn't been called adorable since he was a small child. Sherlock brushed his fingers through his hair and realized it was sticking up in every direction and had dried that way.

"I look ridiculous."

"You look cute. I could get used to waking up like this," Ian said with a smile.

"You don't even know me," Sherlock said.

"And I'd like the opportunity to do so. You got work, or can we go out to breakfast?"

Sherlock was surprisingly hungry. He figured it was all the sex. Considering the other option was having to listen to Mrs Hudson over tea Sherlock agreed to breakfast.

"Let me just shower and," he gestured at his hair, "deal with this."

Ian sat up and kissed the tip of Sherlock's nose.

Sherlock looked at him, scandalized.

Ian laughed at Sherlock's expression and got up to find his clothes. Sherlock watched him dress before going to the bathroom.

After a shower, seven different hair products and blowing his curls dry with a defuser Sherlock looked down at the counter and noticed his makeup. Would Ian expect him to wear it now? They were going out to breakfast, not to a club, it would be strange for him to get all made up for that.

His hand hovered over his eyeliner anyway. He tested himself, _I am a man, woman, both, neither and he, she, they want to do his, her, their makeup_. With a frown, Sherlock decided they were both and they wanted to do their makeup. But, they were going out during the day, in public.

Sherlock put eye primer on, a very thin line of brown eyeliner and faint peach, white and light brown eyeshadow. They just put on a slight amount of blush to bring out their cheekbones. They didn't put on mascara or lipstick, fearing that people would be able to notice those. They were very careful to keep everything subtle.

They exited the bathroom and dressed in a tee-shirt and jeans. They put on their more masculine shoes and a jacket to satisfy the male part of themselves and the makeup was enough to satisfy their need to be feminine.

Tea was set out when Sherlock entered the living room and Ian was having a cup. A quick deduction to know that Mrs Hudson hadn't waited to talk to Ian. She had obviously come up hoping to catch a glimpse of Sherlock's... _bedmate_ , but she hadn't hung around. They were grateful for that. They couldn't imagine trying to explain to Ian why everyone called him Sherlock. Sherlock didn't know if Ian kept up with the news, if Ian would know who they were if they gave their real name.

Ian poured Sherlock a cup, asked them how they liked it. As Sherlock sipped he sighed happily. Mrs Hudson made their tea a specific way and it was always a bit off. When they made their own tea it was perfect. But Ian made their tea like John had, a good try, but a bit too sweet. Sherlock loved it.

"Where did the tea come from?" Ian asked.

Sherlock looked over at him. He was smart, he knew Sherlock hadn't made it. And he paid attention to little things that Sherlock didn't When Sherlock saw tea, they didn't question why it was there. John would have known, having met Mrs Hudson. Ian asked.

"My landlady, Mrs Hudson. She was probably hoping to catch another glimpse of you." Sherlock took out their laptop and marked an x in 15/2/18 morning: both they/them before snapping the laptop shut. "So, breakfast?"

Ian was interesting, a bit dimwitted, but charming. Sherlock was a bit miffed that Ian smiled at the waitress but Ian winked at them and they both got their coffee free. Ian had been engaging, shared stories about Iraq freely and had many humours ones. Every once in a while Ian would look off a bit sadly but always looked back at Sherlock with a smile.

Sherlock liked him.

They parted ways after eating. Ian off to his flat leaving with Sherlock's number in his phone and a promise to call. Sherlock went back to their flat with a skip in their step.

Mrs Hudson was lying in wait when they returned. "Oh, you're back."

"Well spotted, Mrs Hudson."

She climbed the stairs after them. Once they were in flat B she scolded them, "You should try to be quieter on your next dates. In my time of life, I need sleep, not shouting." Her features softened, "There will be more dates, won't there?"

"I haven't decided," Sherlock said. They liked Ian and that was the problem. If they hadn't liked him they could happily not answer their phone if he rang. But...

"He was a handsome fellow, wasn't he?"

"Mm," Sherlock agreed with a hum.

"Stayed the night, too. That's a good sign," Mrs Hudson prodded.

"He has my number, knows where I live. If he wants a second go he has ways to get a hold of me."

"Oh, but it was more than that, Sherlock. It was a date."

Sherlock made a moue of disagreement.

"You went out for food, didn't you? Mind you, in my day we had dinner first not breakfast after but…." She shrugged and sat in John's chair.

Knowing that Mrs Hudson wasn't going to go away until she'd asked all her questions Sherlock sat too.

"So, tell me about him."

"Who?" Sherlock asked to be difficult.

"Your man, tell me about him."

"Not much to tell, really. He's in the military, on leave, two brothers, one older, one younger, not interested in children--"

"What's his name, Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson interrupted.

"Ian." Sherlock leaned back in their chair and crossed their legs. They wished they had tea for this conversation but Mrs Hudson had them talking so that was out until the conversation was over.

"He is quite a man. I used to see men like him all the time when I was working. Fresh off leave, looking for a good time."

Sherlock wrinkled their nose, they didn't like where this was going.

"Of course, we weren't obligated to sleep with our customers but sometimes I went home with one. There was this one fellow, looked just like your Ian, tanned, fit--"

"Tea!" Sherlock shouted.

Mrs Hudson jumped in her seat. "What?"

"Tea," Sherlock repeated more quietly but made it no less of a demand. They stood and shooed her from the flat. They shut the door behind her and leaned against it.

A moment later the interaction was deleted.

They were happily surprised when Mrs Hudson brought up tea. It was late and not normally tea time.

"I think you should see your Ian again," she said sitting with a steaming cup in John's chair.

"Mm," Sherlock hummed noncommittedly and blew on their own tea. That solved the mystery of extra tea, she wanted to gossip.

"He'll be good for you. I hate seeing you alone. Plus, he got you up and outside during the day with your makeup."

Sherlock felt themselves blush. "Is it that obvious?"

"No, sweetheart. I wouldn't have noticed if I hadn't been looking."

Since when did Mrs Hudson start calling them sweetheart? They weren't sweet! They didn't have a heart! "I am not a sweetheart," Sherlock said darkly.

Mrs Hudson took a sip of her tea in response. She raised her eyebrows at Sherlock's glare.

Sherlock knew a lost cause when they saw one.

Mrs Hudson left shortly after that but her words stuck with Sherlock. They thought about them frequently over the day and more over the next.

***

Sherlock was furious with herself for caring that Ian hadn't called on the sixteenth.

Her phone's text alert sounded on the seventeenth and she leapt at it.

**From: Lestrade**

**Case. Three bodies, all look like suicide but there's no note and no links between each of them.**

Sherlock frowned. If it was a suicide pact they'd have talked before, have something in common.

**From: Lestrade**

**Same time of death.**

Interesting.

**From: Lestrade**

**And they're all missing their left eye.**

Sherlock's fingers flew over her phone.

**To: Lestrade**

**Text me the details, I'll be there soon. -SH**

She went into the bathroom to wash off her makeup.

It was a good case and the murderer lead them in a good chase. Lestrade was the one to take him down. Sherlock was in the middle of her explanation when her phone rang. She took it out and saw the number. It was unrecognized. Was it Ian?

She shook herself out and hit ignore. She continued her monologue when her text alert sounded. It was from that same number.

**It's Ian, I was wondering if you wanted to go out tonight.**

Sherlock smiled and put her phone back in her pocket. Ian used proper punctuation in texts. That was surprisingly hot. She pretended nothing had happened and explained why the spoon was the important evidence. Her text alert sounded again, from that same number. It said that the DJ was playing at a different club tonight and had such blatant innuendo Sherlock nearly blushed. She stumbled over her words, causing the yarders to eye each other and whisper. After a third text, Sherlock let out a little squeak and left, much to Lestrade's dismay.

"Sherlock, you have to give a statement!" he shouted at Sherlock's back.

She wasn't planning on giving a statement tonight or anytime before noon tomorrow. She knew the club Ian was talking about. She had to show Ian what he'd been missing by playing it cool.

The club wasn't a gay club but Sherlock felt confident in her makeup abilities. After that one cabbie had thought she was a woman she knew she looked good. Back at the flat she put on dark red lipstick and used the deep plum eyeshadow that had scared her before. She modified a smoky eye look and applied blush.

Feeling bold she took out the stiletto booties. She nearly fell twice before taking smaller steps. It was cold out but she didn't want to take her coat and risk being recognized. She had a leather jacket that might be too hot in the club it'd be worth it not to freeze on the way there.

When she exited her taxi she breezed into the club. She went to the bar, expecting to find Ian there. When he wasn't she ordered a drink. She told two men she was waiting for someone, one practically ran at her baritone.

There were a couple of women eager to share Sherlock’s bed but Sherlock sent them away too.

After one hour she was annoyed. After two she was angry. At three she told herself she was going home but ordered another drink. When the club closed and she spent the mental energy to drunkenly plot Ian's murder.

She stumbled up the stairs to flat B and passed out in her bed, disappointed and hurt.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains transphobia.

Sherlock woke up with a groan and cursed the sun. She/He/They… they were a grown woman/man/agender/both person and they'd spent all night waiting for a date that didn't show. And now they had a hangover. They wiped their eye and felt their makeup smear. Their pillowcase was stained, likely ruined. They groaned again and went to the bathroom where after using the loo they drank straight from the tap. They decided that being awake was horrible and since the pillowcase was already ruined some more makeup wouldn't hurt they tripped and didn’t stop themselves from falling into the bed. They considered removing their stilettos but decided they'd already slept in the boots once, it wouldn't hurt to do so again.

But now that they'd thought of it their feet throbbed worse than their head. Wincing at the light coming through the window Sherlock fought with the zips on their shoes and threw the first bootie across the room. At the racket that created Sherlock pulled the other bootie off and kept it on the bed. Feet aching, they curled up in a ball and threw the blanket over their head.

Loud footsteps woke Sherlock up. They nearly cursed at Mrs Hudson before realizing that it wasn't the sound of her heels that woke them up. There were multiple people and the tapping of an umbrella on hardwood floors.

Sherlock jumped out of bed, wobbling as the room spun.

"Oh, good, you're awake."

"What do you want, Mycroft?"

"I have a team here to find the drugs. I'll give you a chance to hand them over," Mycroft said, tapping his umbrella against the floor for emphasis.

"What?" Sherlock rubbed their eye and glared at the black and purple makeup on their hand.

"Sherlock, make an effort and I won't force you to go to rehab."

Rehab? "Oh," Sherlock sighed. Mycroft had been watching them and when they stumbled home drunk he thought they were high. "I'm not high, Mycroft." Although they wished they were. When Ian hadn't shown they'd considered--

Ian… Mycroft.

"You!" Sherlock shouted at Mycroft, wincing at the sound.

"Search the flat, thoroughly," Mycroft said and the minions scattered.

"It was your fault he didn't show. Did you threaten him?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. Maybe once you're sober--"

"I'm not high! You kidnapped him and scared him off. Tell me, Mycroft. Tell me what you did," Sherlock demanded.

"I haven't touched your little... _friend_." Mycroft picked a piece of imaginary lint off his jacket. "Now, go wash all that off your face and we can talk."

Sherlock was tempted to argue but they felt disgusting and it was clear that Mycroft wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.

After showering and shaving Sherlock was wondering what else they could do to delay their conversation with Mycroft. They looked around the bathroom and focused on the makeup. They knew they'd have to offer an explanation for it and that Mycroft wasn't going to settle for anything other than hearing it was a disguise to get drugs. Since he wouldn't believe the truth anyway Sherlock figured they could infuriate their brother by going out there with makeup on.

They put teals and gold on their eyes with orange and pink lipstick. They paired this with a light blue shirt, a dark blue suit and stuffed their aching feet into sequins shoes.

When they walked into the living room they got to watch their brother's expression go from surprised to irate. Sherlock was sober enough now to appreciate it. A few hours ago and they wouldn’t have cared.

“Must you be so childish?” Mycroft asked with a sneer.

Sherlock levelled their best aloof glare at him, not bothering to answer verbally.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed. “Really, Sherlock. I have done my best to help you appear normal and keep you off the drugs. Why must you fight me so?”

“I’m not ‘normal.’ Never have been. So good job there. I’m not high either. I am, however, hungover and am in no mood for your overbearing parenting. I have two parents already, I have no need for a third.”

Mycroft pursed his lips and Sherlock knew why. Their parents were absent at best. Their father tried but their mother was in charge and she’d lost most of her interest in her children as soon as it was clear they weren’t willing to bend to her every whim. She made an effort and did love them but looking back it was obvious. Mycroft, being seven years older had basically raised Sherlock, when he hadn’t been away at school, anyway.

“If it’s true you’re not high you won’t mind submitting to a drug test.”

Mycroft pulled out a saliva test, a urine cup and snapped his fingers.

Sherlock stuck the saliva test in their mouth, took off their jacket and rolled up their sleeve. A man came over with equipment to take Sherlock’s blood. Sherlock let him without fuss. They were thankful that Mycroft didn’t want a follicle test as well. It had been months but that wasn’t long enough to pass that test.

If Mycroft was surprised at Sherlock’s cooperation he didn’t show it. Mycroft took the saliva test from Sherlock’s mouth when time was up so Sherlock didn’t switch it. He frowned when there were no lines on it besides alcohol.

“Well, this has been fun. Since you have people in the flat and my blood I’m going to decline the urine test. I don’t fancy catering to your subordinate’s kinks.”

That made Mycroft’s eyes widen and he looked at the woman Sherlock was staring at. She turned away but not before blushing.

“Fine,” Mycroft agreed. “If the bloodwork comes back clean and there aren’t drugs in the flat I’m willing to put this behind us.”

“Fantastic.”

“Assuming you agree to stop going out to clubs and stop this nonsense with your _friend_.”

“No,” Sherlock said.

“What do you mean no? I’ll have Lestrade bring you more cases if you’re bored.”

“I’m nearly forty, Mycroft. If I—”

Mycroft cut them off. “Exactly. You’re nearly forty. You’re too old for this nonsense. You look ridiculous.”

“If I want to go out to clubs, drink and engage in a relationship, of any sort, I should be able to,” Sherlock said as if Mycroft hadn’t interrupted.

“Sherlock, Ian is a _man,”_ Mycroft said, as if it had somehow escaped Sherlock’s notice. “And having sex with him will not bring John back. Really, what will Ian say? What will John say?”

Sherlock frowned.

“Even as blind as they both are it will be obvious—”

“Yes, thank you,” Sherlock said. They didn’t need to hear that Ian was a replacement for John. They already knew. “If I’d wanted your opinion I would have asked.”

“I can see you’re not going to change your mind. I hope for your sake that the two never meet.”

Sherlock hoped that Mycroft wouldn’t be able to scare Ian off. Maybe, once the two met Mycroft would come around, like he had with John. Unlikely, but Ian was a soldier as well.

“It’s not a crime.”

“What isn’t, brother dear?”

“Being gay. It’s not a crime. So, you can put your mind at ease. Besides, you slept with Lestrade. Being more than a little hypocritical, aren’t we?”

“I just want to protect you. It’s dangerous, being different. And the makeup, Sherlock, really. Isn’t one in the family enough?”

“Well, if I feel the need to wear a dress I’m sure you’ll get used to it.”

Mycroft snapped. He turned feral. “Sherlock! Enough of this foolishness! You have gone your whole life being a man! You are not transgender. If you keep this up I’ll have you sectioned until you come to your senses!”

One of Mycroft’s minion’s whispered to another and they both glared at their employer. Another smiled.

“You wouldn’t dare!” Sherlock snarled.

“Try me!”

“Ahem, Mycroft. A word?”

Both Sherlock and Mycroft’s heads turned to the voice. Lestrade was standing in the doorway and he looked livid.

Mycroft swallowed his ire and put on an act of being contrite. “Ah, Gregory. I didn’t notice you come up.”

“Obviously,” Lestrade said and came into the room. He towered over Mycroft.

“Care to explain yourself?” Lestrade asked.

“Calm down, please. This is a family matter and—”

“I will not calm down! Being transgender is not a crime and not a reason to have someone sectioned. Hasn’t been for ages. You just threatened your brother. I could arrest you right now.”

Mycroft stood and attempted to look down his nose at his (ex, surely) lover. “We both know the charges won’t stick. I could make your life very difficult if I so chose. It’s an abomination and I will not have my little brother succumb to mental illness--”

Lestrade punched Mycroft so hard he fell back into his seat. He shook out his right hand while he hauled Mycroft out of his seat with his left. “Get out! Get out of this flat and don’t come back!”

Lestrade dragged Mycroft out the door and down the stairs. Sherlock followed them to watch Mycroft thrown on his arse in the street. Sherlock moved out of Lestrade’s way as he climbed the steps. He ordered Mycroft’s minions out of the flat and they scurried out, not wanting to meet Lestrade’s fist as well.

Once everyone was gone Lestrade turned to Sherlock. “Forget about him, Sherlock. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. And don’t worry about anything. I’ll make sure he doesn’t lay a hand on you.”

Not knowing what else to say Sherlock said, “Thank you.”

“And if you come out I’ll make sure my team keeps their mouth shut. If you don’t want to come out--I know you hadn’t intended to come out to me--I’ll keep your secret.”

“I’m not a woman,” Sherlock blurted out. “Not all the time, anyway.”

“Ok,” Lestrade said but he looked confused.

“I think I’m gender—” They couldn’t make themselves say queer. “I’m not in the gender binary… most of the time.” They frowned at how that sounded. It didn’t come out right at all. “I’m genderfluid-ish… but I’m still doing experiments,” Sherlock said and gave up trying to explain further.

There was no shame in being genderqueer. Sherlock didn’t understand why they couldn’t just say it. Lestrade was obviously ok with it.

The confusion stayed. It was obvious Lestrade had no idea what Sherlock was talking about. “Well, if you need someone to talk to I’m here. I have a family member, too, who’s gone through this.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said. Lestrade’s family member was clearly a trans woman and obviously Lestrade thought Sherlock was too and was too afraid to say. Sherlock didn’t want to talk about it though so they said, “Your sister, no, cousin, can rest easy though. I don’t think she can help me.”

“Well, if you change your mind….”

“I’ll let you know.” Sherlock shuffled their feet. “And, don’t worry about your peons. I’m not going to come out for your work. It’s not relevant and it will distract them. They are already halfwits. I can’t imagine them if they’re gossiping.”

Instead of scolding Sherlock for insulting his team Lestrade smiled. “If you change your mind….”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Sherlock said with a smirk.

Instead of smiling, Lestrade looked uncomfortable.

“What?” Sherlock asked flatly, expecting probing inane questions.

“Do you have a pronoun you prefer?”

Sherlock thought about their experiment. They could just say they hadn’t decided yet, but when would they decide? They hadn’t put an end date for data collection. It was obvious even without further study anyway.

“They/them,” Sherlock said. They felt like hiding which was absurd.

“Ok,” Lestrade said and offered to drive Sherlock to NSY to take their statement.

Sherlock hesitated. They hated riding in cop cars, they really did. But having ridden with Lestrade Sherlock found they no longer had the objections they once did. Besides, it was the front seat.

“Fine,” Sherlock agreed as if they were doing Lestrade a favour. They made Lestrade wait while they washed off their makeup and made sure their hair was perfect and Lestrade gave Sherlock a look for making him wait so long but didn’t say anything.

On the ride over Sherlock’s text alert sounded.

**From: Ian**

They noted that they must have saved Ian’s number at some point last night. They didn’t remember doing so.

**Sorry I missed you last night. Would you like to try again tomorrow?**

Wrinkling their nose Sherlock moved to shove their mobile back into their pocket. Why should they bother going out with Ian again when he stood them up? Something caught Sherlock’s eye though. They scrolled up through the messages and realized they’d never responded to Ian. Of course, Ian hadn’t come to the club; he thought Sherlock had stood him up by not responding!

Sherlock could have smacked themselves.

They typed out:

**To: Ian**

**Sorry, I thought I had responded last night. Tomorrow sounds good. –SH**

They wondered if they should invite Ian out for dinner tonight. Would that be too forward?

Lestrade called for Sherlock’s attention and Sherlock stuck their phone in their pocket, no additional text sent, and exited the car.

Giving their statement was a study in patience but they managed.

They took a cab home, Lestrade didn’t have any cases for them and they weren’t bored enough to go through cold cases. Lestrade still had work of his own to attend to and although he probably would have driven Sherlock home Sherlock had a stop he wanted to make.

Sherlock directed the cabbie to Tesco. They picked up some milk as they’d used the last of theirs to grow some mould cultures. Then, after glancing around to make sure no one was watching them they nipped into the aisle that held condoms and lube. Once there they stared.

Ribbed, extra-large, extra thin, flavoured, dear god. Sherlock didn’t know where to begin. They decided to try lube.

That was just as bad. Warming, flavoured, water based, oil based, one that was supposed to tingle. That sounded dreadful. Who would want that? They crossed off that one and the flavoured ones. They decided the warming one would probably be as bad as the tingling one which left them with water vs oil.

They glanced around but no one was watching them. They wanted to take out their phone and do some research but they didn’t want to stand in this isle like a pervert and they had milk in their hand. Besides, even if they went online to find the best condom/lube combination the author posting probably wouldn’t have done proper research.

They could make it into an experiment…. Ian knew they were a scientist. But Sherlock didn’t want to let Ian know they were a virgin when it came to penetrative sex. Ian probably wanted someone who knew what they were doing.

Although, Ian hadn’t seemed to mind when Sherlock had said that they’d need pointers on how to top.

Still, John had hated being experimented on and had repeatedly told Sherlock that it was a bit not good when they did that. Ian probably didn’t want to be experimented on either.

Which was all very well and good but it didn’t get them any closer to purchasing lube and condoms.

Sherlock narrowed their eyes at the display.

A man came, stepped around Sherlock, picked up a package of condoms and scurried away.

Sherlock could deduce that he was gay.

The condoms he selected must be good for gay sex. Sherlock took them and a tube of water based and oil based lube. Ian could tell Sherlock which he preferred.

They used a chip and pin machine rather than put their purchases through a check stand. If they were buying these things to experiment on they wouldn’t have minded, but these were going to be used. They walked with their milk and their double bagged items back to the flat.

Once there they placed the lube on the nightstand and the condoms in the drawer. They realized they were still holding the milk and they put it away.

Tea. They needed tea after all that.

Sherlock made themselves a cuppa and settled to drink it.

They wanted a smoke.

There was no real reason not to anymore. John wasn’t around to disappoint or be worried about them or _care_. No one would care, really. Mrs Hudson would tisk about the smell but honestly, she didn’t have a leg to stand on with the smell her herbal soothers gave her flat. Mycroft would worry if he found out but Sherlock didn’t give a toss what Mycroft thought. It would be worth having Mycroft come harass them because Lestrade wouldn’t hesitate to slap him with a restraining order. It wouldn’t stick, of course, but it might make his life a bit more difficult. Despite what Mycroft thought he did have superiors to answer to.

Still, it was a slippery slope from cigarettes to harder stuff so they resisted.

Sherlock had just finished off their tea when their text alert sounded.

**From: Ian**

**Great. Looking forward to it.**

They smiled at their phone and flipped it in their hand, thinking. They didn’t want to wait until tomorrow to see Ian. Would it be too needy if they requested to see Ian tonight? They’d missed last night’s date. But, they had plans for tomorrow.

Sherlock set down their empty mug and texted back:

**To: Ian**

**Unless you’d like to get dinner tonight. -SH**

Their text alert sounded immediately.

**From: Ian**

**Yes. Where?**

Ian seemed to not conform to societal expectations regarding playing hard to get. Sherlock was glad, they weren’t very good with relationships and they didn’t have it in them to play games.

Sherlock texted Ian the address of Angelo’s along with a time. Seven o’clock.

That was still five hours away. They paced the flat. Should they do their makeup? Ian might expect it. But Angelo hadn’t seen them with their makeup done. Angelo wouldn’t tell anyone but it might startle him. Angelo figured Sherlock was gay, that was obvious from how he treated Sherlock every time they went there with John, and wasn’t put off by it. Would that tolerance extend to transgender people? It was apparent from the online forms that it didn’t always.

They wouldn’t have to worry about running into anyone else they knew, they’d never taken anyone but John there and it was a small restaurant.

Angelo wouldn’t know Sherlock was transgender. Sherlock would still be wearing their suit. The restaurant was dim. Sherlock _wanted_ to wear makeup.

Nothing bold, they decided. And they’d wear what they had on now. They liked this suit, it brought out their eyes.

As time passed Sherlock got more and more worked up about their date. What if they said something that put Ian off? Oh, god, what if Angelo greeted Sherlock by name. He would, he most certainly would. They hadn’t thought this through at all.

Sherlock pulled out their phone at three hours ‘till and rang Angelo’s. They told Angelo to reserve their favourite table and that Angelo was to pretend not to know them. Angelo thought that Sherlock was bringing a suspect to get information out of them and Sherlock didn’t dissuade that notion. Sherlock would keep their crime-solving prowess to themselves and everything would work out.

What would they talk about if they couldn’t talk about crime? They could talk about their experiments. Not the grizzly ones involving body parts--Sherlock got the sense that Ian wouldn’t have the same strong stomach that John had--but their analysis of tobacco ash and perfumes would be safe topics. Sherlock could go on about those for hours if need be. Plus, Ian was sure to have things to talk about. Sherlock liked listening to stories about Ian’s service and surely he hadn’t run through them all yet.

They wiped their sweaty palms on their trousers.

Then they’d come back to the flat and have sex.

Oh, no. What about the sex? Sherlock didn’t know anything about sex. Well, actually they knew quite a lot about sex and how it related to crime but they didn’t know the more practical bits. Like how to top.

Sherlock pulled out their laptop and got to work researching. Looking at porn wouldn’t work, Sherlock knew just from the blow jobs they’d had that sex wasn’t like porn in real life. For one thing, sex was over a lot faster.

And that was another problem. Sherlock hadn’t lasted very long at all. And penetrative sex was supposed to be over a lot faster than blowjobs. Sherlock probably wouldn’t last a full minute if they were expected to top.

Well, that was the first thing they’d research. How to last longer during sex. Since Sherlock had deduced that Ian had no interest in topping himself they couldn’t tell Ian to top. Honestly, Sherlock didn’t have much interest in topping either. It sounded better to be penetrated. They’d stimulated their prostate during masturbation and found it extremely enjoyable. It would probably be better when their shoulder wasn’t aching from being twisted.

But, since they had no actual experience with real-life sex and they wanted to experience everything at least once they didn’t mind topping.

After reading a lot of forums and sites dedicated to sex Sherlock knew that the condoms would help. Honestly, they had been more than a bit stupid to agree to oral sex without them. Just because someone wasn’t exhibiting signs of an STI didn’t mean they didn’t have one. It had been an impulsive move even taking Ian home. Sherlock decided they wouldn’t be so careless again. Condoms, every time. The internet said that it wasn’t an unreasonable demand. In fact, in the sites that catered to women, the authors said that if the man wouldn’t agree or agreed but didn’t use one then consent was revoked.

That was interesting. Sherlock spent quite a bit of time researching consent. It made sense to them now why Ian didn’t buy them alcohol.

They went back to learning how to last. Thinking about other things, taking it slow, wrapping their hand around the base of their erection seemed to be sound advice. One of the sites that catered to teenagers said to masturbate first. Sherlock figured their refractory period would be up if they masturbated before they went to dinner.

Sherlock then decided to research advice on how to properly have gay sex. There was a lot of contradictory advice and it was clear that being penetrated for the first time, as a man or a woman, would be extremely painful. Sherlock was a little glad that they weren’t being penetrated tonight. They decided to buy some dildos to masturbate with first. They would be able to work themselves up to bottoming. Plus, it sounded like a much easier way to hit their prostate.

Before Sherlock knew it, there was only an hour before they were expected to meet Ian. They cursed, took off their clothes so they didn’t accidentally soil it and quickly masturbated, being ruthlessly rough and taking as little time as possible. They redressed and went into the bathroom to do their makeup.

No lipstick, brown eyeliner only on the upper lid, peach and white eyeshadow with just a hint of brown at the outer corner. They weren’t doing foundation anymore, even with the setting spray it liked to settle around the lines of their face. Just the barest hint of blush. Sherlock looked at themselves critically. It was hard to tell they were wearing makeup. Their hand hovered over the lipstick.

They really wanted to wear lipstick but it was pointless, it would come off when they ate. Plus, it would stick to the glass of wine when they took a drink. No, they’d decided no lipstick for a reason. It just wasn’t logical.

They turned their attention to their hair.

Somehow, they arrived at the restaurant fifteen minutes early. They detested waiting for other people. Even when John was set to show up at the flat Sherlock had made sure to arrive exactly on time. John had gotten there first. It had been timed perfectly.

So, what went wrong here?

Sherlock took their seat by the window and Billy removed the reserved marker. They ordered some wine and settled in to wait.

Ian arrived two minutes later, thirteen minutes early. Sherlock wasn’t surprised, but they’d intended for Ian to wait for them. Well, at least they hadn’t had to wait long.

Ian’s face lit up when he saw Sherlock and he slid into the booth. “Hey,” he said with a crooked smile.

Sherlock felt the edge of their mouth twitch up. “Hey.”

“Nice place,” Ian said.

Sherlock grunted. They wanted to tell Ian about Angelo and the case and show off how brilliant they were, but they couldn’t. It was nearly physically painful to not say, _“Yes, I know the owner.”_

Billy took Ian’s drink order and Sherlock told him to just bring a bottle of wine. Ian liked to drink and Sherlock had read that alcohol would help them last longer. Sherlock had no plans on getting drunk themselves or getting Ian drunk but Sherlock needed more than a single glass to take the edge off.

“You look nice,” Ian said as he looked over the menu.

“Oh,” Sherlock shifted. They didn’t know quite what to do with that. What was the appropriate response in this situation? “Thank you.” Right, good. Sherlock still felt like they were missing something. Of course! “You look nice too.” There.

“Thanks.” Ian smiled and went back to the menu.

Sherlock couldn’t tell if the silence was getting uncomfortable. They didn’t need to look at the menu. Honestly, they weren’t all that hungry but it’d look strange if they didn’t order anything. It wouldn’t be normal. They hadn’t ordered with John, but then, that hadn’t been a date. So, they’d order their favourite dish, pick at it and maybe eat it tomorrow if they were hungry then. The ravioli reheated well.

“So…” Ian took a breath. He closed his menu and looked at Sherlock.

They blinked back at him.

Ian chuckled. Apparently, that was Sherlock’s cue to start talking. “What did you do today?”

“Oh, um….” They got threatened by their brother and went to give a statement to the police. Neither of which was normal to say. What should they say? They didn’t want to lie to Ian. “Spent some time with a friend.” There, that was normal and true, Lestrade had made it clear they were friends. “What about you?”

“Nothing. I was bored. Thanks for inviting me out, I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow to see you again.”

Sherlock felt their cheeks warm and they took a sip of their wine. What were they supposed to say to that?

They sat awkwardly until Ian took the reins. “What is it you do? I know you said you’re a scientist but of what, exactly?”

“I…” Oh, damn. They hadn’t thought this all through. “Do a little of this and a little of that.” Sherlock took another sip of wine. This wasn’t going well at all. What was wrong with them all of a sudden?! It’s not like they were a teenager. They could go out on a date and be charming when it was for a case. Why couldn’t they do it when it was for them?

“I analysed two hundred and forty-three types of tobacco ash,” Sherlock said, remembering the topics they’d thought of at home.

Ian chuckled, and his eyes went wide. “Why?”

“It’s useful. The ash is different and unique. With just the ash you can prove what type of cigarettes someone smokes.”

Ian didn’t get a chance to respond. Billy came over and took their orders.

Sherlock thought Ian would drop it and they’d have one less thing to talk about, but Ian said, “I get it, but how is that useful?”

“So, let’s say that someone is murdered,” Sherlock said and leaned in toward Ian. “And the only clue you can find is a cigarette butt. You can get a lot of information from that. DNA, possibly fingerprints, all that. But what if there’s only ash left? What if the murderer was smart and they took their butt with them? What do you do then?”

“I don’t know, what?” Ian leaned into Sherlock.

“Well, the ash can tell you what brand the killer smoked. You can find out a lot by that. If it’s a brand traditionally smoked by women, then it’s likely your killer is a woman. If the brand is only sold in France, for instance, your killer is likely French. If there’s a lot of ash, then they’d laid in wait. If it was a common brand you could check nearby shops to see if they’d sold any recently since people don’t typically carry more than one pack with them.” Sherlock realized their hands had started moving with their explanation and they put them down.

Ian still looked interested, he didn’t look bored or sceptical. “So, do you work with the police?”

“Sometimes.”

“Have you caught any murderers?”

“A bit,” Sherlock admitted. They were determined not to say anything else. They were perilously close to giving away their real identity.

“That’s cool, Scottie.” Ian took a sip of his wine and poured Sherlock some more.

Sherlock blinked a bit at the name. Didn’t they just think that they didn’t want to lie to Ian? Ian didn’t even know their real name.

What on Earth were they doing?

Ian pushed for more information and Sherlock deflected. They got Ian talking about Iraq and by the time Ian was done eating Sherlock was surprised to find that they’d finished a fair portion of their meal.

“So,” Ian said after picking up the cheque, “What do you want to do now? Movie?”

Sherlock wrinkled their nose. There was no way they’d be able to sit through a movie quietly. John had sometimes gotten angry when it was just the two of them at home (of course, other times Sherlock was able to get John laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe). It wouldn’t do to have a whole theatre angry at them.

“My place?”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, my computer died and I had to replace a bunch of the parts. Updates might be sporadic, I update to the cloud but there are some things I want to change in the next few chapters.

When Sherlock suggested their place Ian’s happy smile turned downright filthy. He brought his lips to Sherlock’s and nipped at his upper lip. He licked along the seam of Sherlock’s lips and Sherlock found themselves opening their mouth despite being on a crowded street.

Ian pulled away right when Sherlock was starting to get dizzy. He raised his hand to hail a cab but Sherlock pulled his arm down. Ian swung with the momentum and took Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock looked at their joined hands in confusion. They remembered holding John’s hand all those years ago when they were handcuffed together, adrenaline, running through the night…

“Scottie?”

Sherlock shook themselves out of the memory. Ian was looking at them and Sherlock said, “We can walk, it’s not far.”

They walked, hand in hand down the pavement. Sherlock took their time, enjoying Ian’s warmth. It had gotten colder as evening fell and Sherlock had left their coat at home, not wanting to risk being recognized. Sherlock leaned into Ian when they passed a person walking the other direction and didn’t lean back when they had the whole pavement again.

Ian leaned in a pecked a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek.

They hadn’t finished the wine, but Sherlock was still feeling pleasantly buzzed. They were so fuzzy they didn’t notice their surroundings.

Sherlock watched everything happen as if everything was in slow motion. They felt an arm wrap around them tighter and yank, spinning them slightly. Then they noticed the car. It wasn’t going to stop at the intersection and they were about to be hit. Sherlock didn’t even have time to jump and go limp. They were about to be hit by a car.

But the arm was still pulling and Sherlock found themselves tugged out of the path. The car missed them by centimetres. They landed part on their shoulder part on Ian.

Ian had pulled them out of the way.

Sherlock stood, making a mental note of the plate numbers and helped Ian to his feet.

“You alright, Scottie?” Ian asked.

“What? Oh, yes. Fine,” Sherlock took out their phone and texted Lestrade the plate numbers. He might do something about it, he might not. Hopefully, the car was a getaway car for a criminal on one of his cases and he’d bring Sherlock in on something interesting. Later, though. Sherlock had plans for tonight.

“Thank god. That driver was an arsehole. Somebody should report them.”

Sherlock stuck their phone back in their pocket. “Already done.”

The adrenalin cleared Sherlock’s head. Now they were starting to get tense. They were about to have sex. Were they really ready for this? The first time had been an impulsive decision and the fact that they hadn’t used condoms made it a stupid mistake. Was Sherlock about to make another mistake having sex now?

Ian chuckled. “God, you need a bodyguard. First, you’re shot and now someone tries to run you over.”

With narrowed eyes, Sherlock considered this. Was the driver trying to kill them? Intriguing, but unlikely. Sherlock decided Ian was joking. “Are you looking to fill the position?”

“I am looking for a fulfilling position, now that you mention it,” Ian said and leered at Sherlock.

Sherlock snorted. No, they decided, it wasn’t a mistake. They had condoms, and even though Sherlock was feeling pressure Sherlock didn’t feel pressured into it. They knew if they said no Ian wouldn’t push. There was no guarantee the sex would be any good but hopefully Ian knew enough that it wouldn’t be bad.

“That can be arranged,” Sherlock said with a smile and led them up the stairs to two, two, one.

Ian stayed back as Sherlock fumbled with the keys. He took two long strides after the door was open and Sherlock found themselves pressed up against the wall in the entry. Ian pressed their lips together but held back. Sherlock figured he was waiting for them to take charge.

Sherlock found they would have preferred it if Ian had taken charge like he had the first time they’d been in this position. Sherlock barely had any time to think. Now they had far too much time to dwell on what was coming.

“Something wrong?” Ian asked when Sherlock didn’t respond.

“My landlady,” Sherlock lied. “Let’s go upstairs so we don’t get caught again.” Sherlock didn’t wait to see how their words would be taken, they just started climbing the stairs. After a moment they could hear Ian follow.

Without pausing, Sherlock walked all the way to the bedroom. There they started to take off their clothes.

“What’s wrong?” Ian asked. He leaned against the doorway with a frown.

“Nothing,” Sherlock tempered their voice so it didn’t waver. They also turned to hide their shaking hands.

“Do you not want to…?”

“No, no. It’s fine. I mean—it’s not fine. No, I mean I want to have sex.” Sherlock’s knuckles turned white around the waist of their trousers. That was eloquent. What was wrong with them?

“Shh.” Ian walked from the doorway and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s back. “Are you nervous about topping? Would you prefer to bottom?”

Everything Sherlock read indicated bottoming the first time would hurt like hell. They didn’t want their first time to be painful. “No, I can top. I’ve just never done so before and…” And what? Oh! “…I’m worried about hurting you.”

Ian hugged them and Sherlock could feel the little puffs of Ian’s breath against their neck. “You’re sweet. It’ll take a lot to hurt me. Don’t worry.”

Sherlock felt a bit trapped. They shook Ian off. What should they say to that? Sherlock decided to just agree. “Alight.”

“Alright,” Ian said warmly, and Sherlock could hear him talking off his clothes.

Sherlock finished removing their clothes and stood naked before Ian. They weren’t shy about their body per se and Ian had already seen them naked. But Sherlock couldn’t help but feel exposed. Last time Ian hadn’t commented on the scars on their back. Would he do so this time?

Ian bent over to take off his jeans and Sherlock’s mouth went dry.

Dear god, he was hot. And soon Sherlock would be there, between those cheeks. It was a heady feeling. It was terrifying.

“I brought a condom and some lube,” Ian said when they turned and sat on the bed. He started removing his socks.

Sherlock bristled. Did Ian really think they would be so irresponsible to not have gotten those things after last time? “I have some,” they said defensively.

“Oh, good.” Ian cocked his head and Sherlock knew he was trying to figure out why they were suddenly agitated.

“I have water-based and oil-based lube and some condoms,” Sherlock gestured to the nightstand.

Ian gave Sherlock an odd look. “Latex condoms?”

That brought Sherlock up short. It nearly killed them to admit that they didn’t know what the condoms were made of but they said so regardless. They didn’t know why that mattered.

“Because you can’t use oil-based lube with latex condoms,” Ian said carefully. “It weakens them and can make them break.”

Sherlock felt themselves blush. They should know that. “Right,” Sherlock said because Ian wasn’t saying anything. Should they lie and say their previous partner bought everything?

“Well, you have water-based so it doesn’t matter. And it’s better too,” Ian said before Sherlock could open their mouths to lie. Ian smiled and he looked up at Sherlock from his place on the bed with hooded eyes. “I can’t wait to have you in me. Have I ever told you how sexy you are?” He didn’t wait for a response. “I can’t get over it.”

For some reason, the praise unsettled Sherlock. It wasn’t that Ian was lying, he really did find Sherlock sexy. Sherlock guessed it was that they weren’t a sexual being and being labelled as such was off-putting.

Besides, they weren’t a non-sexual being any longer.

Ian stood and pulled Sherlock over to the bed. “Stop worrying,” he whispered before capturing Sherlock’s lips with his own. Sherlock allowed themselves to be pulled into the kiss and Ian moaned in response.

Sherlock found the audible feedback helpful in getting into the mood. The tension in their shoulders loosened and Sherlock moaned when Ian sucked on their tongue. It reminded them of their blowjob. Ian started pulling back and Sherlock surged forward, unwilling to let Ian go.

Soon Ian was on his back, being pushed into the mattress by Sherlock. He groaned and thrust with his hips.

Sherlock wanted to keep their… bits… away from each other until there was a condom on. They up onto their knees but kept their mouth on Ian’s. Ian whimpered at the loss and tried to raise his hips up to get some friction. Sherlock wrapped one of their hands around Ian’s hip and pressed down to hold him in place.

Ian groaned long and low. “Scottie,” he pleaded.

“Shh,” Sherlock said. They could tell their actions turned Ian on. Sherlock already knew Ian wanted them to take control. They realized they could use this to make sure they were always comfortable with what was happening. The thought made Sherlock’s cock throb and they took their hand away from Ian’s hip and wrapped it around their penis, giving it a few long strokes to take the edge off.

Ian was watching the proceedings with wide eyes and licked his lips.

“Let me taste you,” Ian said when he raised his eyes to Sherlock’s.

“Shh,” Sherlock hushed him again because they didn’t know how to ask for a condom when they hadn’t used one last time. They placed their fingers over Ian's lips to let him know he shouldn't attempt oral sex.

Ian settled back.

That's when Sherlock heard the doorbell. It was a longer ring than a client but not long enough to be his parents. Who was at the door then?

Sherlock waited and the doorbell rang again, longer this time. But that didn't make any sense.

"Is that your door?" Ian asked.

"Yes," Sherlock said and crawled off the bed. They pulled on a vest and some trousers.

"Are you expecting someone?"

"No," Sherlock said. They knew Mrs Hudson would be leading the mystery person up the stairs. "Stay here," Sherlock said and closed the bedroom door tightly behind them.

"We weren't expecting you," Mrs Hudson said as she climbed the stairs. “You don’t have to ring the bell, dear.”

She came into view and then John came up behind her.

"Yeah, sorry, I know I have a key but--" John cut himself off when he saw Sherlock.

Sherlock wanted to ask what John was doing here. They wanted to demand to know why John kept leaving. They wanted to order John to move back in and to never leave again.

The two just stared at each other.

"I'll just go make some tea," Mrs Hudson said and went back down the stairs.

The silence was broken Sherlock simply said, "John." It wasn't a question or a demand nor was it a statement of fact. If anything, it was a plea. Sherlock hated how weak they sounded.

John cleared his throat and looked away. Sherlock waited and eventually, John looked back. He shuffled his feet and clenched his fist and rubbed the back of his neck and Sherlock waited.

They'd do anything for John.

"Right, well," John started and rubbed his neck again. He looked away and said, "I came to say I'm sorry."

Sherlock frowned. What did John have to be sorry for? John wasn't too late in finding out where his wife was. John wasn't responsible for his daughter's death. John didn't fail any test of Sherlock's.

John seemed to realize that Sherlock didn't understand so he continued, "I shouldn't have left like that. I shouldn't have blamed you. I— Oh, hello."

Ian walked in wrapped in Sherlock's sheet. "Hello," he said, and his eyes held a dangerous glint.

"Sherlock?" John asked.

Sherlock wanted to die.

"Want to introduce me to your friend?" John's voice had gone all odd like it had when he saw Janine.

When Sherlock didn't do anything but gape Ian stepped in. He extended a hand to John. "Ian, nice to meet you."

John took his hand. "John. Sorry, who are you?"

Sherlock said, "He's my bodyguard." Which was totally nonsensible. John wouldn't understand the reference. But what was he supposed to say? My fuck-buddy? The man who minutes ago was going to deflower me?

"I'm your boyfriend, you tit," Ian said and laughed.

"Boyfriend?" John's voice had gone all high pitched and his eyes were wild.

"Uh," Sherlock wasn't sure what the proper social protocol was here. They were fairly certain the other person had to agree to be in a relationship for there to be one. Ian had never discussed this with them. It was obvious Ian saw John as a threat and was marking his territory.

John looked like he was about to vomit. "You have a boyfriend?"

Did they? They'd only been on two dates. They liked Ian well enough.

"Sherlock?" John asked.

"Uh...." What they said here was critical. If they denied Ian it would damage their relationship. But if they agreed then John would find out they were gay.  Even if they weren't technically gay. They knew John was bisexual, that he repressed the part of himself that liked men. That's why he declared that he wasn't gay instead of saying "I don't like men," or something similar. Still, they were pretty sure John wasn't interested in a relationship with a man. If they admitted they had sex with men John's opinion of them would change. It looked like John was trying to mend their friendship. If John realized Sherlock was a sexual being it might scare him off again.

"Seriously?!" Ian said, and Sherlock winced. He huffed and went back to their bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

"Is this for a case?" John asked in a whisper.

They could lie, it would be easy. But John got mad at them when they lied. If John discovered the truth he'd be upset. There was no telling what Mrs Hudson had said on the stairs, either.

They pulled themselves up to their full height and leaned away. They made sure their face was a mask when they said, "No."

"Oh," John looked hurt.

Sherlock wasn't expecting that reaction. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting. He knew John wouldn't laugh at him. When John had said, _"It's all fine,"_ at Angelo’s all those years ago he wasn't lying.

"I thought you were married to your work," John said.

"I...." Sherlock didn't know what to say. This felt more like a trap than the boyfriend question was. John waited semi-patiently for an answer though and Sherlock could tell this was something he was going to be stubborn about.

"That was eight years ago," they said. It was a perfectly acceptable answer. It wasn't a lie and it didn't give away that they were possibly in a relationship or that they'd wanted a relationship with John for years.

If it was possible John looked even more hurt.

Ian came out of the bedroom fully dressed. He huffed and made a big show out of leaving. Sherlock didn't know what to do and didn't do anything to stop him. They would have hurried him out if they'd known how. Which was probably a bit not good.

When Ian was gone and the front door was shut John said, "Well, that's all I came to say. Sorry to interrupt your evening."

It was ok that John interrupted. It would always be ok for John to interrupt.

"Well, it was your turn to interrupt one of my dates," they said with a small smile.

John laughed but it sounded a bit broken.

They stood in awkward silence. Sherlock wished they could go back to comfortable silences they had when John lived here. They also knew if they didn't say anything John would leave. They didn't want John to leave.

"Tea?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, thanks," John said and took a seat in his chair. He looked a bit surprised.

Sherlock went to the kitchen and gathered themselves. They didn't want John to go but the longer John stayed the more likely it was that Sherlock would say something and drive him away again.

With shaking hands Sherlock brought John his cuppa.

Sherlock sat in their own chair and took a sip. They'd added too much sugar. They winced and put the saucer down in their lap, resting the cup on it but still keeping fingers wrapped around the handle.

They smiled at John.

"So..." John said, looking around, "…a boyfriend, huh?"

Sherlock pretended to take a sip of tea. Was this some sort of trap? They'd already said yes, was John hoping for a different answer now that Ian was gone? "Yes," they answered because it was true enough. They weren't sure they were really in a relationship with Ian but it hardly mattered for what John was getting at. He wanted to know if Sherlock was having sex and they were.

After a long pause, John asked, "Does that mean you're gay?" He took a sip of tea immediately after.

That was prying. Sherlock hated it when John pried into their life. They hadn't answered this question whenever John posed it before. They didn't want to answer it now. They could say they were bisexual but then John would think he actually had sex with Janine. That they found vaginas attractive. That they wanted to have sex with cis women.

Sherlock stared at John, but John didn't withdraw his question.

John still thought they were a man. It wouldn't be wrong to say they were gay. At least that implied that they liked penises.

They really didn't want to say they were bisexual. It might have been technically correct, but it didn't _feel_ right. It was absurd.

They said, "Yes, I’m gay."

John spilt some of his tea and swore.

He stood and got a flannel out of the kitchen and came back, sitting down and wiping himself down. He was no longer holding his tea.

"So, all that with Janine was a lie?" he asked.

"Yes, John." Hadn't they already said that? They thought they had, but maybe it slipped their mind. They'd been out of it after they'd been shot. They didn't remember much of what happened around that time.

John was staring at them with an open mouth.

Sherlock set their tea in their saucer angrily and said, "Of for god's sake, John. You already suspected this. It cannot be this much of a surprise."

John blushed and closed his mouth. "Right, yeah. Sorry, it's just... you've never said anything before. You always deflected."

"You've never caught me with a naked man before." That implied there were naked men before Ian. The statement was still true, but John would get the wrong idea. Oh, well.

"So, there were men before?"

Damn. Sherlock set their tea on the floor so they wouldn't spill any. "No," they said with their mask firmly in place. They didn't know how John would react to this and they didn't want to give anything away. If John made fun of them they didn't want to expose that they'd been hurt.

Sherlock's answer clearly confused John. "So, you were a virgin, before?"

Well, they weren't going to answer _that_. "Why is this so interesting? Is this another one of your 'things normal men talk about' talks? We've been over this, I'm not normal."

John jumped back as if he'd been slapped. "I didn't mean that. Sorry, I shouldn't have pressed."

Sherlock took their tea to the kitchen and came back. John wasn't standing as if he was going to leave like Sherlock expected. John always did the unexpected. It was incredibly arousing and irritating. After standing for a moment Sherlock sat back down in their chair.

"Can I ask about him?"

Normal people would say yes. But they couldn't let John know just how similar Ian was to him. It'd be obvious that he was a stand-in for John. John would know that Sherlock wanted him and that was unacceptable. "No," they said in their most standoffish tone.

John flinched again. "Right, sorry." He looked like a kicked puppy.

Sherlock wanted to say something to make him feel better, to explain they weren't rejecting him by not sharing. But they didn't know the right words. They thought about changing the subject, asking what John was going to do now that he was done mourning, if he wanted to go on cases again, if he was going to move back in. But John was closing himself off and Sherlock couldn't very well pry when he'd just told John not to do the same.

Could they?

John still wasn't saying anything so they figured they could.

"What are you going to do now?" they asked.

"Huh?"

"Now that you're...." Sherlock waved their hand so they wouldn't have to say, _"done mourning."_

"Oh, well I've already gone back to work." John looked up at Sherlock through his lashes and said, "But I can't really afford the flat without Mary," as if it were something to be ashamed of. As if he wasn't dying to ask Sherlock if he could move back in.

Sherlock rolled their eyes. "You can--" they stopped. Did they really want John moving back in here? He'd be there when Sherlock did their makeup, when they went off to the clubs, when (if) they brought Ian back, when they wore their heels (if they wore their heels again, they hadn't ever since they'd hurt their feet so badly. It just didn't seem worth it).

John wasn't an idiot, no matter what Sherlock liked to say. John would figure out they were transgender if he lived at Baker Street again.

In fact, they were wearing makeup now. John would see if he bothered to really look, to observe.

"Yeah, sorry. You probably don't want me around with your boyfriend."

"No, it's--" Sherlock cut themselves off again. They'd come out to Lestrade and it'd been fine. John really didn't have a problem with his sister being gay. He didn't really have a problem with being bisexual himself, he just was heteroromantic. That was no guarantee he wouldn't have a problem with Sherlock being transgender but it was promising.

"I can probably get another place. I'd like it if I can keep going on cases, at least."

"Oh, for—! Of course, you can move back in," Sherlock said. They couldn't take John's moping. "And you've always been welcome on cases." Sherlock gave John a pointed look.

John had the decency to look ashamed.

"Thanks," he said. "I really mean it. I'll try to stay out of the way. I'm sure your boyfriend will understand if you tell him it's never been like _that_ between us."

Sherlock didn't know about that. They wondered if they should continue their relationship with Ian now that John was back. If they did they'd have to make sure the two never talked. It would be nice to have someone around to take the edge off whenever the sexual tension became too much to bear but they really didn't want to use Ian and it seemed Ian wanted a real relationship.

They weren't suited to real relationships.

Even if that was something John wanted it was something they couldn't provide. They couldn't be romantic and be supportive and be there when the other person needed them. They never said the right thing. Never mind doing the right thing. They'd forget anniversaries during a big case, they'd interrupt dates if Lestrade called, they were probably still technically a virgin. A lot of people online seemed to believe that penetration was necessary.

Because, no matter what John said or thought, it'd always been like _that_ between them. At least, it had for Sherlock.

"I'll start moving my stuff in. Might take me a bit to get everything. I'll have to have someone go through Mary's stuff. I don't think I can," John said. He looked cautiously optimistic and sad at the same time.

"Mrs Hudson or Molly can help, I'm sure."

John smiled up at Sherlock and something in Sherlock's chest fluttered.

John's eyes narrowed. "Are you wearing makeup?"

"Ah… yes," Sherlock said. They weren't ready to come out. John might leave and they'd just gotten him back. They'd just say it was an experiment. It wasn't technically a lie; the makeup experiment was never concluded. It hadn't ever really started.

But John didn't ask why. He just smiled.

After a moment of companionable silence, he said, "Well, I should head back. You should probably call your boyfriend."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed despite the fact they didn't want John to leave or to call Ian. They had a feeling they would have to break it off with him and they weren't eager to have that conversation.

John stood but hesitated.

"You can stay," Sherlock said. Their eyes went wide. They hadn't meant to say that aloud.

John gave Sherlock one of the soft smiles that Sherlock had never seen John give anyone else. It was special, Sherlock had a room in their mind palace filled with them.

"Ok," he said. He walked their cups into the kitchen saying, "More tea. Can you start a fire? You must be getting cold."

Sherlock smiled. They were barefoot, and John was right, they were cold.

They leaned over and started a fire.

John took his seat, gave Sherlock their cuppa once the fire was going and Sherlock stretched out their legs. John took off his shoes and stretched out too. Their legs tangled, and it was just like old times, before the fall.

It was perfect.

Sherlock sipped their tea until it was empty. They watched the fire and eventually felt their head start to fall. They were nodding off. They looked across to John and saw that he was already asleep.

They nudged John’s leg with their foot. Despite their intentions, their foot lingered, caressing up and down John’s shin. They reigned themselves in, going so far as to cross their legs.

“John,” they said, not trusting themselves to touch him again.

John blinked owlishly at Sherlock. “Hm?”

“Go to bed, it’s late. You’re falling asleep.” Sherlock stood and took their cup and the cup from John’s side table into the kitchen. They needed to stop staring at him.

Sherlock heard John scrub his face with his hand and shuffle off to the loo.

When John came back he said, “What time is… Oh, Christ, I won’t be able to get a taxi. I’d have to call and… Can I sleep here?”

“Of course,” Sherlock said as they washed the dishes. They normally wouldn’t but they didn’t trust themselves to keep their expression neutral. This gave them an excuse not to face John.

They heard John stand but no footfalls heading to the stairs.

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?” Sherlock didn’t turn.

“I really am sorry. I was a bad friend.”

This was why they weren’t suited to relationships. They didn’t think John had anything to be sorry for. After all, when Mary died in their head John had beat Sherlock in a morgue. In real life, John didn’t do that. And they didn’t know how to tell John not to be sorry. They didn’t know how to absolve John of his guilt. Besides, they were the one who dreamed of Mary getting killed, leaving John free to raise the child with them at Baker Street, and that was worse than John taking time away to mourn.

They knew it was pointless, John wouldn’t listen, but they said anyway, “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I….” John started but trailed off. Sherlock could hear him shuffling his feet. “Can you look at me?”

Sherlock took a deep breath and steeled themselves. They made sure their face was in an impassive mask. They didn’t know what John was going to say. They turned and saw that John was steeling himself too.

“Don’t put yourself in danger anymore. I can’t…” he took a deep breath and his expression twisted in pain, “…I can’t lose you again.” John looked away, down with a frown. He hated speaking about his feelings. Sherlock understood. They hated talking about theirs too. “Please, if we’re going on cases again,” John met their eyes, “don’t.”

Sherlock swallowed thickly. So that was why John left again. He thought-- _knew_ \--that Sherlock was putting themselves in danger for him. John didn’t want to see them hurt so he left. But he couldn’t stay away.

They wanted to speak. They wanted to say they’d do anything for him. They _wanted._

But all they could do was nod.

John nodded too. “Good,” he said. He opened his mouth but closed it quickly. “Good,” he said again, and Sherlock wondered what he wasn’t saying. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, John.”

Sherlock turned back to the clean cups. They listened to John walk up the stairs. When the bedroom door closed Sherlock feel backwards onto their stool.


	9. Chapter 9

They had John back.

Now they needed to clean up the mess they’d made of their relationship (whatever it was) with Ian.

They also needed to decide if they were coming out to John. Of course, John knew they wore makeup, he’d commented on it and he must have seen it all in the bathroom. Sherlock hadn’t tried to hide it and they’d left it everywhere. But just because they wore makeup doesn’t mean they were transgender. John wouldn’t know for sure until they said. Unless Lestrade outed them. Sherlock trusted Lestrade but if Lestrade thought John already knew he might say something.

Perhaps that would be better. If John had a bad reaction Lestrade would set him straight like he had with Mycroft.

John probably wouldn’t leave if he found out. Sherlock had thought John would leave after he found out they were gay but John just accepted that. He hadn’t said anything about it. In fact, Sherlock thought, John seemed hurt by it. Was he upset thinking that Sherlock didn’t trust him? That Sherlock had never told him?

It seemed likely.

They pulled themselves out of their thoughts and got ready for bed, stripping and intending to sleep nude. They saw the sheets pulled aside and shook their head. Yes, they would end it with Ian. Tomorrow, though. It was late. Would they have to call him? Could they end it through a text? They sighed. This was another reason they didn’t want a relationship, they didn’t know the rules. Well, no matter, the internet would know. John would know too but they weren’t going to ask him.

After laying down in bed Sherlock cuddled their pillow before realizing they hadn’t taken off their makeup. They couldn’t be arsed to get up though. They’d gotten in the bad habit of sleeping with their makeup on. They knew they shouldn’t, but they also knew that one more time wouldn’t hurt.

They cuddled into their sheets and felt warm. They had a glow in their chest at having John back. No amount of worry about the future was dimming it either.

Sherlock replayed John in his chair, the way his eyelashes glowed in the firelight. The way his feet flexed when he yawned. The way he smiled softly. Comparing the lines in his face to the lines that were there when they met. It was so long ago but it seemed like no time at all. John’s small, sturdy, talented fingers wrapped around his cup.

Doctor’s fingers.

Sherlock looked over at the lube on his nightstand and opened it with fumbling fingers. They poured some out and rolled onto their side. One hand started stroking themselves and their other fingers started massaging their entrance.

Oh, those fingers.

Their fingers were nothing like John’s but if they closed their eyes they could pretend. They were hard now, picturing John’s blue eyes sparkling in the firelight as his fingers worked. Sherlock breached themselves and whimpered, low and quietly, in their throat. Their other hand sped up on their cock. They pictured John’s pink lips, his pink tongue poking out between them. In their mind Sherlock chased that tongue, licking inside John’s mouth. They twisted their arm deeper but the angle was wrong, if they twisted a bit more they might be able to reach their prostate but they’d have to take their hand off their cock to do so.

Sherlock whimpered. They needed John.

Even though they couldn’t get their prostate they still felt empty and they relished the burn adding another finger caused. They pushed their fingers in and drew them out slowly. Their hand kept moving over their cock, brushing their testicles on the downstrokes and twisting slightly around their head on the upstrokes.

John would be good at this, Sherlock thought. John’s girlfriends had found him more than satisfactory in the bedroom (otherwise they wouldn’t have stuck around so long).

No, they didn’t want to think about those women.

They wanted to think of soft greying hair and strong arms. Of John’s massive cock.

Oh, god.

They’d been so surprised when they pulled that tyre iron out of John’s trousers. John hadn’t even been walking differently.

Sherlock forced a third finger in, thinking of how much preparation they’d need to take John’s cock. They hissed at the stretch, it hurt. They moved to the side a bit so they could move their hand over their cock faster, to distract and make that pain pleasure. With three fingers they couldn’t move in and out so they just wiggled them.

Dildo. They were going to go out and buy a dildo tomorrow. This was intolerable.

They pictured John’s hand in place of theirs, that he wasn’t moving it because he was sliding out of his chair onto his knees. He smiled wickedly before wrapping his mouth around Sherlock’s--

“Ah! Nngh.” Sherlock came and stifled their cry with the pillow. They carefully pulled their fingers out and went to the loo to clean up. While they were there they washed the makeup off their face.

When they came back to the bedroom they made sure all the sex accoutrements were hidden in the drawer. They made sure the door from their room to the loo was shut tight too since John was back. Although, maybe they should leave it open so John might be tempted to look at them during the night. They could stay naked and….

No.

John didn’t know about the scars on their back and wouldn’t like the reminder that the scar on their chest would give him.

They weren’t going to put any clothing on--it was late, and they were tired, and they didn’t want to get out of bed again--and they were going to leave the door shut.

Just before falling asleep Sherlock heard John come downstairs and use the toilet. They would have loved to think that John had been upstairs masturbating to them but that was foolish. John didn’t think of them that way.

He probably wouldn’t ever think of them that way. Especially when (not if, because no secret ever actually stayed secret) John found out their gender.

Sherlock woke first in the morning. They (she? He?) _he_ tidied up his makeup, putting all that would fit into the makeup bags and putting the bags and the rest on their side of the sink. He felt a little strange referring to himself as him when he’d selected his pronoun as they but he was a man today and that’s what he felt most comfortable identifying as. Lestrade could refer to him as they, it’d be fine, and like he’d thought before, he couldn’t be telling everyone which pronoun he preferred that day. Well, he could but it’d be exhausting. Besides, he wasn’t comfortable telling everyone sometimes he preferred she.

He took a shower, remembering to keep it short in case John woke up and needed the loo. He shaved and couldn’t take his eyes off his makeup. He wanted to do it today. It was strange, he was a man but he liked his makeup and was in the mood to do it. He resisted. John hadn’t asked questions last night and most likely wouldn’t when he saw the makeup bags but he might be tempted to ask if Sherlock was wearing it again.

After putting product in his curls he got dressed in a suit and one of the shirts he knew John liked. His eyes lingered on his sequins shoes but he put on his normal ones.

Mrs Hudson was in the living room, waiting for him. When he walked out to see about tea he passed John. They grunted at each other like they had all those years they lived together. Mrs Hudson was practically vibrating with excitement. When the bathroom door closed she grabbed Sherlock’s arm.

“So? Is he staying?”

“I believe so,” Sherlock said. He pried her off before she wrinkled his suit.

“I’m going to go make you boys a big fry up, just like old times. Oh, I’m so happy for you, Sherlock. I told you he’d be back.”

Sherlock didn’t remind her that she didn’t believe those words when she said them. He just smiled and started clearing off the table in the living room they used to eat at. Would be eating at.

John emerged from the shower in a towel. Sherlock’s mouth went dry looking at him.

“Sorry,” he said. “Don’t have my housecoat here. I’m just going to… yeah.”

Sherlock knew John had left clothing upstairs. One of the reasons he gave was their cases were sometimes messy, but Sherlock liked to think it was because John couldn’t bear to leave. He’d called himself foolish for his maudlin thoughts when John stopped talking to him, but, maybe he was right. John came back.

John wouldn’t always come back though, eventually, he’d find another woman and have another child and have the life he always wanted and there’d be no room for Sherlock in it.

Well, if Sherlock was going to live on borrowed time he was going to make the best of it.

John came downstairs and turned the kettle on. (Mrs Hudson hadn’t brought tea, she’d forgotten it in her rush to come up and gush over John being back.) He opened the fridge and sighed. Sherlock knew he was looking to see if there was anything in to eat. Since there wasn’t John was starting to get grumpy.

“Don’t bother,” Sherlock said. “Mrs Hudson is making us a full English.”

John perked up at that. “Oh, yeah?”

“Just like—” Sherlock cut himself off. He was about to say, _“Just like old times.”_ But that’d draw attention to the fact that they’d moved past that point. The point where they were comfortable with each other, the point where they were happy and Sherlock hadn’t left and Mary didn’t exist in John’s world.

“Yeah,” John said, and he looked defeated.

Sherlock cursed himself. Clearly, John had understood anyway. Even from across the room Sherlock could see the pain in his expression. He didn’t know what to say to make it better and everything he could think of would make it worse. So, Sherlock kept quiet, just waiting for John to come out of his thoughts on his own.

He knew his staring was going to make John uncomfortable so he pulled his laptop onto the clean-ish table and looked at his email. There weren’t any interesting cases but maybe that was for the best. John probably wanted to get moved out as soon as possible and get it over with. He took his phone and texted Molly, seeing if she was working today and if she’d be willing to help John with Mary’s things.

She texted back almost immediately, saying she was working now but she’d be free in the evening. Sherlock told her he’d text her later and looked at his other texts. There wasn’t one from Lestrade talking about a case and there weren’t any from Ian.

Well, that was something that needed to be sorted. Sherlock opened his laptop and searched if it was acceptable to break up with someone over text.

According to the articles it was bad form to end a relationship with a text but ending a casual fling was fine. So, should he just wait for Ian to text him and to respond that he wasn’t available anymore? But, Ian thought they were actually in a relationship, after one and a half dates. Was he being unreasonable not wanting to call Ian or see him again?

He looked up and saw John making tea. He was sorely tempted to ask John but that would be awkward. What if John asked why Sherlock wanted to break up with Ian? He couldn’t say, _“Because I’m in love with you.”_

He looked back down at his texts.

Right below the chain for Ian was the one for Lestrade. He wondered if he could ask Lestrade for advice. They were friends, it was something friends did, asking for dating advice. But it felt like a rabbit hole, like he was inviting Lestrade to be more involved with his personal life. He didn’t want another Mrs Hudson, another person telling him to tell John how he felt. Lestrade already thought ( _knew_ \--but didn’t have proof) Sherlock was in love with John. At least Lestrade had gotten rid of the pool over when Sherlock and John would hook up after John got married--despite Donovan wanting to keep it, saying John would cheat on his wife (Sherlock knew that John might have cheated on Mary, emotionally, but never physically and never with him).

John set a mug of tea down in front of Sherlock and said, “I’m going to go down and see if I can help Mrs Hudson.”

Sherlock nodded absently.  

He went back to the laptop and typed in: **one-night stand wants a relationship** , but that just returned stories of one-night stands turning into relationships. He didn’t want a relationship, he was trying to get out of one. But Ian wasn’t technically a one-night stand, was he? So, Sherlock typed in: **fuck buddy,** he sneered at the vulgar term, **wants more turn them down**. He added the last bit so he didn’t get advice on how to turn a friend with benefits (was that the real term? Ian and he weren’t friends) into something more. The search results were still less than helpful. At least this time they included advice for what to do if you got turned down by someone you wanted a relationship with.

Sherlock decided to just text Ian. Even if it was rude, he was rude, so why should he care?

**To: Ian**

**I’m not looking for a relationship. -SH**

There was no immediate response so Sherlock set his phone aside. He went back to his laptop, intending to close the windows when one of the results caught his attention. It was a forum post where the poster was mad because their friends with benefits partner was using them to satisfy their kink. They were a transwoman, but they just noticed their partner referred to them as a man in other company. Sherlock snarled when he read it. The woman had top surgery and their partner thought men with breasts were hot. The post was dated a few years ago and the commenters weren’t very kind. Sherlock was surprised with how far the world had come in such a short amount of time. He doubted the poster would get this much hate if they posted their story today. Sherlock noted they commented lower about how they took oestrogen.

He googled the effects of oestrogen in men and found it intriguing. He wasn’t sold on taking the hormones himself, he had no desire for increased breast tissue. He read a couple of the other sites, the less scientific ones that were geared more to male to female transitioners, and one of the comments was that people thinking of transitioning should have a hormone panel done. That they might only be feeling transgender because their hormones or thyroid was messed up.

Sherlock found himself staring with his mouth open. He’d never considered this. Maybe he wasn’t transgender at all, maybe his body was just out of balance.

John came back, breakfast in his arms. Sherlock hurried to close his laptop. He set it on the floor and put his feet on it for good measure. He couldn’t have John asking to see it.

But, John was a doctor, he could tell Sherlock if what he read had any medical validity and if it did he could run the tests that needed to be run.

No.

Sherlock smiled at his friend when he took the seat across from him. Mrs Hudson was right behind with more tea.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said to them both.

They smiled at him.

It was nice, having his family around.

He suddenly found it strange to refer to himself as himself and realized that even though he was still a man he actually preferred them. Or, did now, anyway. Had they gotten used to the pronoun already? They didn’t know and really didn’t care. It was one of those irritating emotional things and since it had no real relevance they decided to just ignore it instead of searching for the reason. If they kept searching for the reason every time they had a thought about their gender they’d never get anything done. And John was here now, he’d expect experiments and a certain amount of chaos. Sherlock needed to provide that.

But how could they when their mind was stuck on their hormones?

They pushed their food around on their plate. They didn’t typically have a large appetite in the morning, it was why Mrs Hudson usually only brought up tea. John did, and he was tucking into his breakfast like a man starved. Soon he’d look up and scold Sherlock for not eating. Sherlock took a bite of their eggs, they were slimy and they nearly gagged. They swallowed anyway and tried the beans next.

Their text alert sounded.

**From: Ian**

**Yeah, got that. You didn’t even tell me your real name.**

Well, that wasn’t a horrible response. Honestly, Sherlock was expecting much worse.

“Lestrade?” John asked, perking up at the sound.

“No,” Sherlock said, and put the phone back down.

“Oh.” John looked like he wanted to ask who it was, but he resisted. His face had fallen into something between hurt and bitterness.

Why?

Their alert sounded again.

**From: Ian**

**I liked you, at least I thought I did. I didn’t even know you.**

Sherlock wasn’t sure how to respond. It was true, but they knew better than to say that.

Another text arrived.

**From: Ian**

**I would have liked to. I looked you up, you were fascinating. Are, still.**

Another text came in while Sherlock was still pondering the last.

**From: Ian**

**I can’t compete with John, I understand that. I wish you happiness.**

What were they supposed to say to that?

John shifted in his chair and stabbed a mushroom viciously.

They typed out the only thing they could think to say.

**To: Ian**

**It’s not like that. But thank you.**

Ian responded quickly.

**From: Ian**

**I’m sorry.**

What did that mean? What could he possibly be sorry for? It was Sherlock who lied, who ended things, who used him because he reminded them of John.

They decided not to respond.

John stabbed another mushroom.

“Made up with your boyfriend then?” he asked.

Sherlock didn’t know how to respond to that. They hated this feeling, being wrong-footed. They never knew how to respond in social situations. And it looked like they’d be having two dicey conversations before ten.

They decided honesty was best. “No.”

John looked startled. “No?”

Another text saved Sherlock from responding.

**From: Lestrade**

**Got one for you.**

Thank god. At this point, they’d take a missing pet to get out of talking.

**To: Lestrade**

**Tell me.**

Lestrade followed with three texts detailing the case. It was barely a two. In fact, Sherlock thought they had it solved already. Still, it’d get them out of the house, John could come along. It’d be a welcome distraction and he wouldn’t ask any more questions.

“Is he—” John started.

Sherlock cut him off. “Lestrade has a case. Coming?” They stood, also glad to be able to abandon their breakfast.

John looked longingly at his tomatoes but only for a second. He stood quickly. “Where to?”

***

The case was boring and Sherlock was right when they thought they had it solved. They pretended to take time thinking and involved John with looking at the body.

“What do you think?” they asked him.

“Looks like a suicide,” John said.

“Absolutely correct,” Sherlock felt rather proud of John. They pulled their gloves off.

John glowed at the praise.

“Really, Lestrade, at least make it a challenge. Even you should have been able to solve this one. If it was obvious to John it should have been obvious to you.”

John’s expression fell, and he glared at Sherlock.

Oh, oops. Shit.

Well, nothing for it now. “Come along, John. We’ll make a detective out of you yet.” There, fixed it.

Except John was still glaring.

Sherlock sighed. They’d tried, at least. That had to count for something. They left without looking back. They could hear John’s footsteps behind them. That was a relief. They hoped they hadn’t messed everything up, that John was still planning on moving in. He probably was, Sherlock had treated him how they’d always done and John had never left before. They could tell John wanted to get back to the time before Sherlock’s fall as much as Sherlock did.

The best way to do that, Sherlock figured, would be to act like nothing had changed. Act like they still didn’t know they were irrevocably in love with John.

They’d fallen for him over Chinese after that first case and didn’t realize it until they were gone. They’d wanted to come back and start a romantic relationship, but it was too late. Sherlock imagined John telling them that a relationship would compete them while they were dying but always with the context of Irene. They couldn’t even imagine John wanting to be with them.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock startled out of their thoughts. They looked and saw John staring up at them with wide worried eyes.

“You ok?” he asked.

No. No, they weren’t ok. They didn’t know how not to be in love with John Watson. Even now, looking into those deep blue eyes made their chest ache.

“Sherlock?”

“Fine,” Sherlock snapped. They aimed for angry but the word came out a little breathless. If they were annoyed John would think it was about the case and wouldn’t see how Sherlock felt. He was amazingly blind sometimes. They stormed down the pavement, heading to the main road where they could hail a cab.

They heard John huff grumpily before following. He always got annoyed when Sherlock lengthened their stride, he had trouble keeping up without jogging. Sherlock shortened their step so their friend could catch up.

Sherlock and John made it to the main road, when Sherlock held out their hand a cab pulled over almost immediately.

“I should get my stuff,” John said.

Sherlock looked at him, trying to figure out if John wanted them to come with.

“So, I’ll take this one. You can get the next?”

It wasn’t really a rejection, but it still hurt.

“Molly said she’d help with Mary’s stuff after work,” Sherlock said quickly when John opened the cab door. “Mrs Hudson could probably come now—”

John interrupted them. “No, I can do…. Yeah, no. It’s fine. I can start on the rest of the house.”

“Do you want--?” Sherlock tried to ask if John wanted them to help but John cut in.

“No. Nope. No, I’m good. Thanks.” He smiled tightly and shut the cab door with a bit more force than necessary.

Sherlock was nonplussed as they watched the cab pull into traffic.

***

John didn’t return. The sun had set, and Sherlock was worried. But, they didn’t want to pressure him by calling so they put on a disguise and checked. Nothing had happened to John, by all appearances he was safe in his (old?) flat.

Perhaps he’d changed his mind about moving. The thought plagued Sherlock.

They went back to Baker Street but didn’t bother even trying to go to sleep. Desperately needing a distraction Sherlock looked into whether their hormones could be causing their gender identity issues. After some research, it seemed that it wasn’t necessarily hormones but that the endocrine system was checked before hormone therapy was started. So, the answer was not really but sort of.

Sherlock tapped their finger against their bottom lip.

Should they contact their doctor and have blood work done?

If they did there was a problem it might be correctable and they could feel normal again. Perhaps they were looking at all those childhood memories through a skewed lens. If they didn’t go they’d always wonder. But how would they even ask the doctor to do the tests? They’d have to come out, wouldn’t they?

And then there was that last paragraph, about how mental illness could cause gender identity issues. What if they were having some sort of psychosis? If they were bipolar would that even be a possibility? They didn’t even want to look that up. What if they actually were bipolar? What if this all was a psychosis? How much of their life would be real?

The possibilities were terrifying.

But, if they were bipolar, wouldn’t John have said something? He was a doctor.

Then again, he often missed the obvious… and it wasn’t like Sherlock was a patient.

 They’d been struggling with this for months, surely if this was a psychosis it wouldn’t last that long. And Sherlock was still able to solve crimes, was sleeping and eating and no one had said they were acting abnormally. That might just be because they were focused on their gender. But Mrs Hudson always commented when they were in one of their “black moods” or when they were driving her up the wall with their boredom.

Sherlock had been surprisingly level recently.

Unless that was a symptom.

They were getting a headache.

“Aarugh!” they shouted in frustration and ran their fingers through their hair.

This was getting them nowhere. They’d start with checking their endocrine system. They would have to find a doctor and make an appointment and hope there wasn’t a case when they were scheduled.

Now, how could they convince a doctor to check everything without actually coming out?

Were these things checked during routine blood work? If not, could they be added on? According to this website, they’d need to test their levels of luteinising hormone, follicle stimulating hormone, testosterone, oestradiol and prolactin in the bloodstream. And it looked like a routine blood screening didn’t include those.

Sherlock rubbed their eyes. They blinked in shock and groaned. They looked at their hands but didn’t see any makeup on them. Then they remembered they hadn’t done their makeup today.

What did it mean that they were a man and they wanted to do their makeup? That they’d thought they’d done it and were comfortable with that? If they were a man shouldn’t they want to act like a man? Men didn’t wear lipstick, they didn’t put on eyeliner and eyeshadow. They just didn’t.

Why was everything so confusing? They’d thought life would be easier now that they’d accepted themselves and they’d picked a pronoun. Why wasn’t it easier? Did it ever get easier?

They groaned and were glad that John wasn’t back. He’d want to know what was bothering them and they couldn’t— _wouldn’t_ , the little voice corrected—tell him.

Thinking about John made Sherlock’s chest throb with worry. Was he ok? He was fine earlier when they’d gone to check but it was truly late now, and shouldn’t he have at least texted?

Sherlock pursed their lips and looked at their phone.

One text wouldn’t hurt. It was John’s own fault they were worried. If John didn’t go and get himself kidnapped so often (even in their mind when they’d overdosed John had been trapped down the well that Redbeard had died in _(don’t think about Redbeard)_ ) then they wouldn’t have to worry.

**To: John**

Sherlock admired John’s name on their screen, ignoring the long string of unanswered texts below. Would this be another one or would John respond this time?

**Are you coming home—**

Sherlock scowled and deleted the last word.

**Are you coming back to Baker Street tonight? -SH**

Their finger hovered over the send button. Was it too much? Too needy? They deleted all of it.

**Are you alright?**

They didn’t even add their initials to that one. _That_ was certainly crossing a line. If John wasn’t kidnapped he’d interpret the text as Sherlock asking if he was emotionally ok. John didn’t open up about emotions. He just didn’t, and Sherlock didn’t either. They weren’t like that and trying to become that way wouldn’t help their friendship back to how it was before the fall.

**You alive?**

No, that wasn’t right either. God, what if he wasn’t?

Sherlock shuddered and deleted the message. John was fine.

**Are you coming back to Baker Street tonight? -SH**

Send.

Sherlock paced as they waited for a response. They probably wouldn’t get one. John dealt with emotions with alcohol, even knowing what his sister had become. Sherlock had tried to temper that habit. He had probably had one too many and had fallen asleep surrounded by memories of his dead wife.

Thank god he didn’t have his gun anymore.

These thoughts weren’t helping.

They gave in to their craving and lit a cigarette. Why hadn’t John texted back yet? Did they need to go get back in their disguise and go check on him again?

Their text alert sounded and Sherlock pounced on their phone.

**From: John**

**M not going today nite**

The M gave Sherlock pause but it seemed likely that John was just drunk and texting _I’m not going tonight_. Going meaning going back to Baker Street or going anywhere at all.

But what if John was kidnapped and he was counting on Sherlock to read between the lines and understand that he needed to be rescued?

Their phone pinged with a new message.

**From: John**

**Sherlock I**

Was that a cry for help? Or was he drunkenly texting and forgot the other half of his sentence?

Their phone pinged again.

**From: John**

**Not ok why**

“Oh, for god sakes!” Sherlock threw their hands up. They knew John was just drunk and that he was fine physically but there was a slim possibility that he wasn’t and that possibility was going to haunt them. They knew as they ran down the stairs that John wouldn’t open the door and when they picked the locks John would be offended and drunk and upset with them and in the morning when he was soberer he’d curse Sherlock for showing up and seeing him so weak.

They got in the cab anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference: http://www.yourhormones.info/endocrine-conditions/gender-identity-disorder/


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about the previous chapter. I'm guessing I disappointed you all. Hopefully, you'll like this one better. If not, oh well.   
> FYI I'm caught up to my writing so the next chapters may take longer to post. Hit subscribe.  
> See warnings in end notes.

Sherlock tapped their fingers against their jiggling leg as the cab sped down dark streets.

John was fine. John was _fine._ He was absolutely fine. He was just fine.

Why was this taking so long?

“Can’t you go any faster?” Sherlock demanded.

The cabbie said no, and Sherlock fell back in their seat with a huff.

_Finally_ , they arrived at John’s flat and Sherlock flew out of the cab, barely remembering to tell the cabbie to wait. If he protested Sherlock didn’t hear it. They strode through the front garden and pounded on the door.

“John? Open up!”

The door opened right when Sherlock gave up knocking and knelt to pick it. John was standing in rumbled clothing blinking blearily down at them.

“What? Sssherl?” he slurred before stumbling against the door frame.

Sherlock rolled their eyes and barged in. There were boxes stacked in a corner, one taped up and sitting on the coffee table. Sherlock peeked inside and saw a stack of DVDs inside.

They also saw a gun with a silencer on the table.

The feeling in Sherlock’s chest had nothing to do with the fact that it was the weapon Mary had tried to kill him with and everything to do with why John had it out.

Taking the gun and hiding it in their coat Sherlock stormed up to John. They’d wanted to shake him and yell, _“What are you thinking?! Don’t know think your suicide would impact me the same way mine did you?!”_ and call him an idiot and ending it all with a love confession and a blistering kiss.

Sherlock did none of that. They forced a surprisingly pliant John out of the house, across the garden and into the cab.

“Two, two, one Baker Street,” Sherlock told the cabbie.

John didn’t argue, he just slumped against the door.

How had they missed it? They hadn’t even considered that John might be suicidal. Had they been apart so long that Sherlock could no longer read him? Or was it that John hadn’t really been contemplating ending his own life? Or was it just one of those times that Sherlock missed something important? Or was it a John thing? Sherlock often missed things when it came to emotions and John.

Sherlock swallowed thickly and watched London pass out the windows.

They didn’t know, they might never know. The only reason they cared to know was to prevent it in the future.

Had it been Sherlock’s presence that had made John take the gun out? John had obviously mourned Mary and the child fine on his own without seeing Sherlock. But Sherlock had even gotten that wrong. In their mind, John had lashed out in his grief. The real John had done the opposite.

Was it being back in 221B that tipped John over the edge?

Sherlock looked over at their… friend(?) and saw him snore lightly.

Would John be better if Sherlock let him go? They’d let him go, never contact him again, if it meant he would be ok.

Something in Sherlock’s chest was screaming and Sherlock barely resisted pressing their hand to it.

They were being melodramatic. John was here, John was fine. They’d be able to deduce if John found their presence distressing. They’d left before and they’d leave again if they needed to.

The cab pulled up to two, two, one and Sherlock paid. He wrangled a sleepy John up the stairs to his room. They dropped him on his bed and took off his shoes. Then they went downstairs, filled a clean glass with water and placed two tablets of paracetamol on the bedside table.

John would be fine, they’d make sure of it.

They didn’t go to sleep, just in case.

***

They waited until John came downstairs in the morning to leave.

John winced at the light and looked miserable but wasn’t suicidal. He’d be fine for a few hours and would probably appreciate Sherlock getting out of the way for a bit.

They’d hidden the gun in their room, in the place where they normally hid their drugs stash. No one had ever found it so Sherlock was confident it would be safe. Sure, there were knives, hazardous chemicals and any number of things in the flat to hurt oneself with but since John was so hungover he could barely walk Sherlock wasn’t worried about a sudden mood change.

They figured that John wouldn’t be curious about their purchases with such a bad hangover so it was the best time to get the things they would be embarrassed about. They didn’t know when they’d have another opportunity to go shopping.

The first place Sherlock went was the sex store. They mentally set himself up in experimentation mode so they wouldn’t be embarrassed before walking in. They would like to make a series of experiments in their sexuality anyway, clearly things had changed since they were a teenager.

They bought three different sized dildos and a prostate massager. They paid with their card, figuring if Mycroft checked the purchase it’d embarrass him more than them.

After that, they’d planned on going to the grocery store to buy the things John needed, like milk and bread and yoghurt but the taxi passed by the shoe store and they called out to the cabbie to stop. They didn’t really need more shoes but they found wearing heels more painful than it was worth and they loved their sequins shoes but it was only a matter of time before the cheaply made things fell apart. They’d last longer if Sherlock had more pairs to trade off with.

Sherlock browsed the shelves, careful to keep their sex aids hidden in the dark bags. They were getting discouraged before they saw it, a silver slip-on shoe with tiny rhinestones and faux pearls. When the light hit them a multitude of rainbows scattered on the wall behind them. They were absolutely ridiculous and Sherlock had to have them. They could never wear them out and the white sole would become dirty almost immediately but Sherlock didn’t care.

 They would wear them to clubs, they decided once they tried them on and found out just how comfortable they were. Just because John was back didn’t mean they had to stop going, they were just going to have to be sneaky about it. It wasn’t that they thought John would disapprove, John probably wouldn’t care once it was clear Sherlock wasn’t going to seek out drugs, but they didn’t feel comfortable showing that side of themselves to others. Especially John.

After they paid they ran to the Tesco. They grabbed milk, beans, bread and they knew they were forgetting something but they didn’t care. The fluorescent lights hurt their eyes and there were people everywhere and they hated everything about going to the shops and John was lucky they were willing to do this for him, they weren’t ever going again.

When they got back, John was upstairs, probably sleeping off the rest of his hangover. Sherlock put the milk in the fridge and left the beans and bread on the counter so John would see that they went out. They hid their new shoes in their closet and the dildos in the shoe box the sequins flats came in. They left their sequins shoes out, they wore them enough and they weren’t so strange that John would raise his eyebrows at them.

Sherlock wondered what they should do next. Should they bring another glass of water up to John? They wanted to check on him, make sure he was still ok. But, it wasn’t something they would have done before the fall and since they wanted to get back there they decided against it.

They didn’t play their violin, even though they very much wanted to, in deference to John’s hangover. They didn’t have anything to experiment on and no case. They paced the flat, agitated and feeling cooped up.

What would they do if John wasn’t here (besides playing the violin)? Check their inbox for cases or go bother Molly or Lestrade, probably.

They took their laptop from its place on the floor and put their passcode in.

The screen showing the endocrine texts was still up.

They drummed their fingers over the edge of the laptop. Should they make an appointment? Probably. The question would be on their mind until they got an answer. But, they still didn’t know how to go about asking for those tests.

The problem added to their agitation.

With a glance upstairs, they typed into a search: **Endocrine Disorders**. They could say they were having symptoms of something else and get the tests they needed done. If everything was normal then no big deal, if it wasn’t they would deal with that.

After an exhaustive search, Sherlock hadn’t come up with anything that would include all the tests.

If they wanted to know if their endocrine system was affecting their gender they’d need to come out to the doctor. There might have been a way to get around it but Sherlock couldn’t find it without searching more and John was moving around upstairs. They noted the tests they needed in their mind palace and shut the browser window. They didn’t bother clearing their search history, John didn’t know how to check it. They opened their email and John’s blog and sat so John could see the screen.

“Hey,” John said when he saw Sherlock.

Sherlock grunted in response, pretending to be engrossed in their laptop.

John stopped, opened his mouth, clenched his fist, closed his mouth and went to get tea.

They knew John wanted to talk about something, probably about how Sherlock found him last night, but either didn’t want to bring it up or didn’t know how to. Just in case it was the first one Sherlock didn’t say anything when John came back with tea.

“Anything on?” John asked.

Sherlock actually looked at the screen instead of watching John. “Couple of lost pets… Someone thinks the ducks in the park are plotting their demise,” Sherlock said.

“Are they?” John asked, smiling slightly.

Sherlock pretended to not know if John was joking and acted affronted. After pretending to think about it Sherlock said, “Not unless they’ve been feeding them peas,” and peeked up at John.

John chuckled.

With a small smile, Sherlock checked the rest of their messages. There was nothing of interest so they closed the laptop.

“Once you type up that dentist case and take that notice off your blog I’m sure we’ll get something,” Sherlock said.

John looked thoughtful. He winced when Sherlock mentioned the dentist but had obviously said everything he needed to say about Sherlock running off because his expression cleared quickly.

“I think the dentists aren’t really the blog’s style. Too dark. Can’t think of anything funny about them, really.”

Sherlock rolled their eyes. “Our work isn’t _funny_ , John.”

John looked up and stared at Sherlock.

Not knowing what they said Sherlock mentally repeated it, _“Our work isn’t_ funny, _John.”_ What made him look at them like that? _“Our work isn’t… Our work… Our.”_ Oh.

He was still staring.

Sherlock shifted, unsure what the right move was. Finally, to get John to look away they said, “What? It isn’t. It’s science. Science isn’t funny.”

Finally, the tension left John’s body and he smiled. “It is when you accidentally eat the fish you were studying instead of the sushi.”

“John!” That had been horrible and humiliating. But John was smiling so the memory must amuse him. At least something good came of it.

He laughed at Sherlock’s expression and finally looked away.

John’s laugh took Sherlock’s breath away.

While they were trying to remember how to breathe, John opened the paper.

“Oh, here’s something,” he said.

***

Three days later John was icing his knee as he sat in Lestrade’s office and Sherlock was trying to convince Lestrade to take the case away from Dimmock so she could interrogate the suspect.

Sherlock felt itchy, through the whole case she’d been a woman and she’d had to act and dress like a man. She’d been walking on eggshells trying to keep her gender a secret, to not do or say anything feminine.

To her dismay, after the first day, she’d gotten a horrible aversion to touching her own penis. She’d found herself looking at Donovan’s breasts with envy. She’d had to avert her eyes from every woman she’d come across and she’d had to sit to use the toilet.

She was exhausted and she just needed to ask the suspect one question. Just one. And the whole case would be over. She could go back to her flat and… and what? John would be there. She couldn’t put on makeup, wear heels, go dress shopping. She would be badgered into eating and would sit and possibly watch one of those horrible James Bond movies John was so fond of.

Well, she would if John had ever bothered to move back in properly. John hadn’t gone back to his old flat since that night.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. It’s Dimmock’s case. I can’t make him do anything,” Lestrade said.

“Fine! Tell him to ask about the frozen yoghurt. If he can’t figure out why that’s important then the case can go unsolved for all I care!” Sherlock snarled, spun dramatically and stomped off.

There was a muffled curse and the sounds of John struggling to catch up.

“Damn it, Sherlock, wait up!” John said loudly.

Sherlock slowed slightly and when John caught up he asked, “You’re really going to leave it like that? Don’t you want to know if he’s the killer?”

“I already know it’s either him or his brother. The case is solved enough.” Except it wasn’t. And if no one asked about the yoghurt then no one would ever know for sure who was the real killer.

To keep John from making the situation worse by saying something more Sherlock said, “Go home, I’m going out for a bit.”

John’s footfalls faltered. He caught himself and came back quickly. “Will you be back for dinner?”

“No, and don’t bother ordering for me. Just go back to Baker Street and rest your knee.”

He looked upset. At Sherlock’s reluctance to eat? That Sherlock was going somewhere without him? Who knew? With John, it could be anything.

John pursed his lips, flexed his fist and gave Sherlock a tight smile. “Right. Ok.”

Sherlock nodded at him and lengthened her strides, leaving John behind.

***

Sherlock groaned. John had so much useless stuff!

She’d boxed up all of John’s clothing (except that one jumper. She set that one aside to burn. Charity wouldn’t want _that_ ) and shoes and everything of his from the bathroom. Most of John’s books had never left Baker Street but Sherlock rounded up the ones that did and threw them into a box. Then she’d moved onto the kitchen, taking all the cooking utensils that Sherlock didn’t have (or that John wouldn’t think were fit for cooking food) or could use in future experiments.

Now, she was in the living room. She glared at the DVDs, knowing that Mary hadn’t left any lying around. That had all been in Sherlock’s head. Still, she felt apprehensive looking at the little boxes. That might have more to do with the fact that there were several new movies that John would surely want to watch with Sherlock. She shuttered at the thought of having to watch two hours of something entitled “Ant Man.” She put it in the box anyway, figuring that if John bought it he must like it. She was stymied by the romance titles though. Not all of them were Mary’s. She tried using the titles John had packed as a guide. Did John want to keep movies he’d watched with his wife or would it be distressing? Would the memories be fond? If they were would Sherlock be able to endure watching John’s expressions during and after a movie that John and Mary had snogged, or more, during?

The doorbell rang and Sherlock answered instead of deciding.

“Hello,” Molly said.

Sherlock stepped aside to let her in.

“Is John here? Where does he want me to start?”

If Molly knew that Sherlock was doing this behind John’s back she’d probably want to call him. He’d feel obligated to come and watch all his wife’s things put into boxes, he’d want to pack up the nursery himself. He’d try to hold it together and would curse Sherlock for bringing someone else to witness his grief.

“John went for a walk. He said to start on Mary’s clothing,” Sherlock said.

Molly followed Sherlock to the bedroom but Sherlock left her to go to the nursery. She looked at the crib, at the baby clothes, at the patch of the wall that was a slightly different colour than the rest of the room, they’d tried a different colour at first and painted over without re-priming.

Green. They’d started painting it green but changed to pink.

Sherlock was trespassing. She didn’t belong here among the stuffed animals and picture books.

She remembered her dreams, her subconscious picturing John drinking and leaving his daughter with other people. John wasn’t like that. Yes, he drank but he wouldn’t leave his child. Mary wouldn’t have left either. Or maybe they would have done. Sherlock didn’t know. She’d never know. She’d never meet John’s daughter, to see if she got his eyes or his nose. If she’d want to be a doctor when she grew up.

John wouldn’t try again. It’d been too painful, too traumatic. He’d never be a father.

Sherlock swallowed thickly and picked out a stuffed bumble bee with iridescent crinkly wings. She squeezed the body a bit, revelling in the soft furry fabric.

John had picked this out. He’d bought it on an impulse. John didn’t usually buy things on impulse. Everything he bought, everything he did, had purpose. But this had caught his eye and he’d taken it home even though the baby had enough toys already and really didn’t need another one.

He’d want something to remember her by.

Sherlock tucked the bee carefully in the folds of one of John’s jumpers. He’d see it when he was unpacking, alone, safe in his room in Baker Street.

If Molly noticed what Sherlock was doing she didn’t comment, she just kept carefully folding items of clothing and placing them in boxes labelled “donation.” Sherlock took some boxes into the nursery, wrote “donation” on them and started carefully taking the room apart.

After she was done in the nursery all the sleep she’d missed investigating Dimmock’s case caught up with her all at once. She decided to sit in the rocking chair and close her eyes for a minute, just a short rest so she could make it home without falling asleep in the cab.

***

She stood tall next to John as she watched him marry another. She had wanted to avoid this, spare herself this pain, but Mary had convinced John to make her the best man and it wasn’t like she could say no. It was _John._

“Does anyone object to this union?”

She sucked in a breath. Could she? No. Right?

“Yes, I do,” her deep voice sounded loud in the silent church.

Everyone stared at her. She needed to say something, explain herself. She clutched the skirt of her purple dress in one fist. “I…” This was inappropriate. This was more than not good. She needed to leave. John wouldn’t listen to her. He wasn’t gay.

But she was a woman. She had a chance. She’d regret it forever if she didn’t. Besides, even if John rejected her he might think twice about marrying Mary once he heard her past. She’d start with that just in case John was so appalled by Sherlock’s interest he stopped listening.

“Her name isn’t Mary. She’s an assassin living under the name of a stillborn child. This wedding is a sham.”

Everyone started talking as Mary tried to discredit her. It came down to trust. Who would John listen to, Mary or Sherlock?

“Maybe we should postpone this…” John said.

“Sherlock’s just trying to interrupt this wedding because she’s in love with you! But, she’ll never say. She’s a coward. And she ruins every relationship you ever have without ever giving you herself. Why would you side with her?” Mary said in an effort to sway John.

“Is that true?” John asked Sherlock.

“If you marry her she’ll try to kill me. I’ll say she didn’t because you feel an obligation to be with her.”

“Is that true?” John asked Mary.

“He lived,” she sniffed. “And look how she avoided the question.”

John looked at Mary like he’d never seen her before. He shook his head and asked Sherlock, “Do you love me?”

“I…” Everyone was staring at her. She looked out and saw Mrs Hudson was leaning forward, her expression encouraging her. She straightened her spine.

“Yes. It’s true. I’m in love with you. Have been ever since the cabbie.”

John pursed his lips and ground his teeth. He exhaled noisily through his nose.

After a moment he said, “Were you ever going to tell me?”

“When I came back. But it was too late.” She looked away at John’s expression. He looked heartbroken but his body language indicated he was going to punch her.

The silence was stifling.

Eventually, John said, “Bit not good, Sherlock.”

She glanced up at him, seeing repulsion.

“You know I’m bisexual. How could you not? I could see you loved me. Everyone could. I kept saying I wasn’t gay, not because I’m not interested in men, but because I’m not interested in _you._ I was trying to get you to move on. I don’t know why you’re trying to ruin the happiest day of my life. Jesus, Sherlock! How could you even _think_ that you’re capable of a relationship, let alone worthy of me? I don’t think this is going to work. I tried to be friends with you but I think it’s best if you left us be from now on."

John turned to the minister to continue the service.

“Excuse me,” Sherlock said and practically ran out the door. She sprinted to her hotel room and threw off her heels. She tore the dress from her body and dark circles stained the fabric. She wiped her eyes and put on her suit, throwing her coat over herself. She closed the room door, leaving the ruined dress and discarded heels inside. Her bare feet were numb as she walked down the hall and out the front door.

Mycroft was waiting with a car just outside.

“I told you not to get involved,” he said as she slid in. “Was that the point of this whole transgender thing? You thought you could make yourself a woman so John would have a reason to love you?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. That wasn’t the reason, was it?

The driver pulled away and Mycroft sighed.

“I only ever try to protect you. Being genderqueer is pointless. Can’t you just be an effeminate man? I mean, really. It’s not a real gender. It’s just something people came up with to feel special. If you had a job, something to occupy your mind, you never would have done this. You need a life. This is just a thing to prove that you have nothing of worth in your life.”

Sherlock wouldn’t cry, not in front of her brother.

“And stop pretending to be a woman. It’s insulting to real transwomen.”

She swallowed thickly. She couldn’t allow him to win. He was wrong! “I am a woman!” she snarled back.

“Well, enjoy that while it lasts,” he simpered.

***

When Sherlock woke there was morning light coming through the window and there was a small blanket thrown over her. Molly’s doing, she deduced. Molly was long gone and when Sherlock went to check the bedroom all of Mary’s clothing was packed up. The bedding was stripped and Sherlock found it folded on top of the dryer. She packed it into a donation box. John might want to take it back to Baker Street for a spare. Unlikely, but possible. Sherlock didn’t care, she wasn’t going to have sheets that John had sex on in her flat. Petty, maybe, but she never claimed to be a good person. She forgave Mary many things, more than was reasonable, and she could afford to be petty now that she was gone and John wasn’t here. Next, she went to the linen closet and put all the bedding in donation boxes.

Sherlock felt grimy after that and decided to take a shower. She didn’t have a change of clothes but she didn’t care. She hadn’t showered all through the case and she needed to clean up.

She took some of John’s toiletries out and set them in the shower. She stepped in the hot spray and let her shoulders sag. She didn’t even want to touch her penis to clean it. God, she was a mess. She washed her hair, hoping that it would behave and dry properly without her products. While she was rinsing she saw it.

Mary’s razor.

 She didn’t want to get rid of her penis, she’d want it later, but she could make herself a bit more comfortable in her body without doing harm later by removing some body hair.

Decision made she stepped out of the shower and dug through Mary’s drawer for the extra blades. She stepped back in and swapped them. She decided it couldn’t be too different than shaving her face (although she used a straight razor for that now she’d used blades before). She applied some of Mary’s shaving cream to her leg and winced at the flowery smell. Hopefully, John wouldn’t recognize it.

After a deep breath, she dragged the razor down the middle of her shin. There was a stripe in the shaving cream and a bald leg underneath.

It felt right.

She rinsed the blade in the shower’s spray and worked around her leg, feeling ok touching her genitals to move them out of the way. She slid her hand over her thigh, feeling smooth skin and more sensitive without the hair there. She smiled.

When she was done with her legs she shaved off her small amount of chest hair. Then she looked down at her stomach. She didn’t know what to do with that. She didn’t want to remove all but the pubic hair (and she wasn’t ever going to try to remove her pubic hair with a razor) because she might feel weird about it when she was a man. She decided to think about it while she worked on her armpits.

Those proved to be difficult. It wasn’t easy to see and the hair didn’t want to shave down until it was smooth. Sherlock didn’t know if it was because this, the last blade in the pack, was getting dull after removing so much hair or if the armpits were just that way. She had to shave against the grain to get all the hair. After she was done with those she had decided on shaving away most of the hair on her stomach. She’d just leave a trail from her belly button to her pubic hair.

Her blade was definitely dull. She supposed she should have used an electric razor to remove most of the hair and used Mary’s razor to get a closer shave.

Well, too late now.

She stepped out of the shower and smiled at the sensation of the towel on smooth skin. She looked in the mirror and smiled again at her reflection. She’d have liked a shave on her face, she was getting a bit of stubble, but overall she looked much better (albeit rather pale).

There was a fresh stick of John’s deodorant in the box and she stole it, secretly happy to smell like John. She wouldn’t return it to her friend (he was still her friend, right?) in case she’d nicked herself while shaving. As far as she could tell she hadn’t there (there were trails of blood on her legs though) but she didn’t want to take the risk. This was hers now. She wrinkled her nose at her dirty clothes but dressed anyway. Then she tucked the deodorant in a pocket of her coat.

Sherlock looked at the time and decided to head back to Baker Street. She didn’t want John to decide to come here since she wasn’t around. She’d decided that she’d just show up with John’s boxes. She couldn’t take the risk of him coming back here and having another meltdown.

She got in the cab and resisted scratching her armpits. She was itchy but not enough to put a damper on the joy she felt that she was going home and John would be there to greet her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reference to suicidal thoughts at the beginning of the chapter  
> body dysphoria  
> transphobia

**Author's Note:**

> [I am inkedviolin on tumblr](https://inkedviolin.tumblr.com/)  
>  You can find me on Twitter @inkedviolinAO3


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